I  ROM  SIDE  STREETS  AND 
BOULEVARDS 


A  COLLECTION  OF  CHICAGO  STORIES 


PRESERVED    WHEELER 


CHICAGO 
R.  R.  DONNELLEY  &  SONS  COMPANY,  PRINTERS 


COPYRIGHT 
BY   PRESERVED    WHEELER, 

I893. 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED. 


DEDICATED   TO   CHICAGO. 


"  But,  truly,  for  mine  own  part,  if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a 
king,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  wor- 
ship." 


CONTENTS. 

A  VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR,  - 

ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE,        -  i6c 

A  PIECE  OF  LAND,     -  -        281 

POEMS : 

GRANDMA,  .  3^ 

THE    FROST    UPON   THE    PANE,  -  342 

COMING    HOME, 

344 
RETURNED, 

345 

FOR   ONE    DAY,   - 

34" 

ROSE    HILL,  -  _« 

34° 
FORGET   ME    NOT,- 


A  VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR. 

IN  the  year  1858  lived  in  a  diminutive  cottage, 
on  the  outskirts  of  one  of  our  large  eastern  cities, 
a  small  family  in  rather  reduced  circumstances. 
This  family  differed  from  the  thousands  similarly 
situated  in  the  misfortunes  leading  to  their  pres- 
ent condition.  The  father  was  one  of  the  younger 
sons  in  a  wealthy  English  family;  he  had  been 
scrupulously  taught  the  manly  accomplishments 
appertaining  to  his  station  in  life,  received  a  liberal 
education,  particularly  in  the  art  of  spending 
money,  and  on  reaching  his  twenty -fifth  year  fell 
in  love  with  a  handsome,  highly  educated  girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  minister ;  this  lady  brought  to  her 
husband  no  larger  dower  than  her  beauty  and 
devotion.  All  might  have  been  well  if  the  young 
husband  had  not  already  formed  that  taste  for 
ardent  spirits  which  has  been,  and  is,  the  blight  of 
so  many  hearthstones. 

The  father  of  this  young  man,  whose  name  was 
Trevanion,  remonstrated  with  him  gravely  on  his 
faults;  he  encouraged  the  attachment  which  resulted 
in  his  son's  marriage,  under  the  impression  that 
this  tie  might  prove  a  powerful  lever  to  work 
against  his  son's  besetting  sin.  For  a  few  months 
these  hopes  bade  fair  to  be  realized,  as  young 
9 


10  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Trevanion'«  happiness  and  absorption  in  domestic 
life  kept  him  from  the  gay  companions  who  helped 
to  lead  him  into  excesses.  This  was  not  to  last,  how- 
ever, for  when  a  baby  girl  was  born  to  him  he 
seemed  slowly  but  surely  drifting  back  to  his  old 
debaucheries  —  the  entreaties  of  his  family,  the 
prayers  of  his  young  wife,  appeared  powerless  to 
save  him. 

Young  Mrs.  Trevanion  held  anxious  consul- 
tations with  her  father-in-law  concerning  what 
had  best  be  done  to  try  yet  the  reclaiming  of  her 
husband.  She  thought,  reasonably  enough,  that 
entire  separation  from  the  companions  of  his  youth, 
the  associations  of  his  orgies,  new  scenes,  new  peo- 
ple, necessity  for  greater  exertion  in  the  care  of 
his  family,  might  break  up  the  old  habits  and  all 
would  end  happily  yet.  At  length  it  was  decided 
that  the  little  family  would  leave  their  fair  English 
home  to  "adventure  all"  in  a  new  land.  With 
many  kind  farewells  from  friends,  and  hopes  for 
their  future  prosperity,  they  sailed  from  that  old 
world  they  would  never  see  again,  and  entered  on 
the  new  life.  How  hard,  how  strange  the  new 
life  was  at  first — but  those  first  couple  of  years 
hope  sang  beside  the  door,  whilst  joy  companioned 
her,  for  the  husband  and  father  was  so  kind  and 
thoughtful ;  drink — that  nightmare  of  their  lives — 
remained  behind  upon  that  English  soil.  Could 
this  have  lasted — poverty,  anxiety,  even  sickness, 
would  have  seemed  to  them  but  light  calamities. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 1 

It  did  not  last ;  by  slow  degrees  their  beloved  was 
falling  into  his  sodden  ways  again.  So  long  as 
his  circumstances  permitted,  old  Mr.  Trevanion 
had  given  his  son  pecuniary  assistance ;  now,  with 
increasing  years  upon  him,  a  large  and  expensive 
family,  and  this  son  across  seas,  these  allowances 
began  to  dwindle,  then  ceased  completely.  After 
many  reverses  this  little  family  had  been  living  for 
the  last  two  years  in  the  modest  cottage  where  our 
story  finds  them.  Trevanion's  education,  com- 
bined with  some  literary  ability  he  possessed,  suf- 
ficed to  provide  for  their  wants  during  his  spells  of 
sobriety ;  but  those  terrible  periods  in  between, 
when  books,  clothing,  furniture,  even  food,  was 
pawned  by  him  to  satisfy  his  insatiable  thirst — who 
can  tell  what  his  family  suffered  at  those  times  ? 
Trevanion's  oldest  daughter,  Christine,  was  now 
approaching  her  fourteenth  year.  She  was  plump 
in  figure,  quite  womanly  looking  for  her  age ;  this 
child  was  really  the  light  of  the  household  —  the 
gayety  of  her  spirits  never  flagged,  her  hopefulness 
remained  undaunted  through  all  reverses.  They 
called  her  Crissy  —  no  severer  appellation  would 
have  suited  the  merry  child  -  face  and  figure. 

Crissy  shared  faithfully  the  cares  of  their  pre- 
carious lives.  When  her  father's  excesses  drove  her 
mother  to  the  very  verge  of  despondency  the 
young  girl  would  cheer  the  broken  -  hearted  woman 
with  the  fancies  of  what  pleasant  things  their 
future  might  yet  hold  in  store  for  them  —  with 


1 2  FAG  A  BOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

promises  of  what  she  would  try  to  do  to  lighten 
her  mother's  burden.  Crissy  was  intellectually 
precocious.  Her  father,  in  the  happy  weeks  of 
sobriety  which  broke  his  long  debaucheries,  read 
with  and  instructed  the  child;  the  little  cottage 
was  visited  by  many  persons  of  a  literary,  also  a 
theatrical,  tendency,  newspaper  men,  playwrights, 
many  people  of  this  ilk.  Trevanion  wrote  for 
papers  and  magazines,  reviewed  the  latest  works 
of  fiction  —  in  fact,  turned  his  hand  to  anything 
where  paper,  pen  and  ink  came  into  requisition. 
In  addition  to  his  other  capacities  he  was  an  able 
accountant,  but,  owing  to  his  erratic  habits,  could 
not  retain  such  positions  of  trust  for  any  length  of 
time.  In  such  a  country  as  the  United  States  of 
America  a  man  of  Trevanion's  capabilities  could 
readily  have  secured  a  competence  had  his  habits 
been  steady;  even  as  it  was  he  managed  in  those 
short  intervals  when  he  abstained  from  drink  to 
collect  some  comforts,  even  luxuries,  about  his 
hearth.  Crissy  never  lacked  for  books,  for  in  the 
little  parlor  stood  two  well-filled  book  cases,  busts 
and  statuettes  adorned  the  room,  upon  the  walls  a 
few  good  pictures  bore  testimony  to  Trevanion's 
taste.  Thus  the  young  girl,  brought  up  in  poverty, 
sorrow,  anxiety,  was  in  contact  with  tastes  beyond 
her  condition;  she  listened  for  many  hours  to 
brilliant  conversations  between  men  of  exceptional 
talents,  who,  like  her  father,  had  in  most  cases 
ostracised  themselves  from  culture  and  wealth 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  13 

by  their  own  excesses.  It  could  not  be  a  matter 
of  surprise  that  this  girl,  who  was  more  familiar 
with  the  latest  novel,  the  newest  play,  the  opera 
just  out,  than  most  girls  of  her  age  would  be 
with  their  French  grammars,  drawings  or  water- 
colors,  should  imbibe  tastes  of  a  decidedly  dra- 
matic tendency.  Crissy  therefore  wrote  poems  at 
the  mature  age  of  ten,  recited  Shakespeare  accept- 
ably at  twelve,  astonished  her  friends  by  the 
exuberance  of  her  fancies  in  prose  at  fourteen;  she 
could  at  all  times  do  what  was  far  more  indispen- 
sable to  the  family  comfort — control  her  father  in 
his  wildest  conditions ;  she  was  always  helpful, 
always  hopeful,  invariably  cheerful,  yet  many  a 
time,  as  she  sat  apparently  absorbed  in  some  fav- 
orite book,  she  was  really  in  serious  thought.  This 
girl  idolized  her  mother  — her  dream  by  day  and 
night  was  what  she  could  do  for  her  mother,  that 
sweet,  patient  mother  who  bore  hard  fortune  so 
uncomplainingly.  She  had  heard  these  people 
who  called  upon  her  father  tell  of  young  girls — 
poor  like  herself — who  had  essayed  to  make  their 
way  upon  the  stage,  who  had  secured  plaudits,  but, 
better  still,  fine  incomes,  had  helped  indigent  friends 
to  comfort,  even  to  independence  —  why  should  she 
hesitate?  Those  who  heard  her  recite  praised 
her,  prognosticating,  with  kind  looks,  bright 
things  for  her  future ;  her  father's  editorial  friends 
published  her  little  poems,  calling  her  a  genius ; 
such  praises  have  misled  older  heads  than  Crissy's 


14  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

many  a  time.  After  weeks  of  secret  thought, 
Crissy  astonished  her  mother  and  shocked  her 
father  by  openly  declaring  a  desire  to  go  upon  the 
stage. 

The  first  shock  of  such  an  idea  is  something 
like  the  first  plunge  into  cold  water — a  couple  of 
shivers  then  it's  all  right ;  such  at  least  was  the 
effect  upon  Mrs.  Trevanion.  Her  husband  regarded 
Crissy's  fancy  much  more  seriously,  expressing  very 
decided  disapprobation.  He  realized  more  fully 
than  his  wife  what  it  was  to  let  a  child  in  her  four- 
teenth year  essay  the  "  battle  of  life  "  in  such  an 
arena;  but,  alas!  his  fatal  habit  conquered  him 
just  as  his  hand  was  needed  at  the  helm. 

One  night  in  the  fall  of  the  year  1858,  Crissy 
and  her  mother  sat  in  earnest  conversation  in  one 
of  the  chambers  of  their  unpretending  home ; 
they  spoke  in  hushed  voices  that  they  might  not 
disturb  the  children  sleeping  near  them.  "  Yes, 
mother,"  Crissy  was  saying,  "  Mrs.  Burton  has 
promised  to  take  every  care  of  me,  to  teach  me  all 
relating  to  the  profession.  Mrs.  Burton  and  her 
husband  have  been  upon  the  stage  so  many  years 
that  they  know  all  that  can  be  known  in  theatricals — 
you'll  come  with  me  to-morrow  to  sign  the  papers, 
then  next  day  we'll  be  on  the  road."  "  Oh,  Crissy 
dear,"  said  the  poor  mother,  "  my  heart  fails  me 
now!  you  are  so  young!  and  yet —  '  here  she 
looked  proudly  at  the  girlish  face  beside  her,  "  I 
can't  help  thinking  you  will  do  well,  you  have  such 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  I  5 

talent!  such  perseverance!  "  After  a  long  pause 
she  turned  upon  the  girl  a  searching  gaze,  then 
said:  "  One  thing  troubles  me,  dear.  You  will  be 
thrown  in  contact  with  so  many  men,  young  men, 
who  will  flatter  you  and  try  to  steal  your  heart 
away;  be  careful  when  they  talk  to  you — never  en- 
courage the  attention  of  any  man  unless  he  asks 
you  to  be  his  wife"  Here  the  mother's  voice 
trembled,  it  was  so  hard  to  say  just  what  she  want- 
ed to  the  child,  who  looked  at  her  with  such  large, 
innocent  eyes.  "  Remember,"  she  continued,  more 
firmly,  "  that  any  man  who  behaves  in  a  lover-like 
manner  to  you,  without  asking  you  to  be  his  wife, 
insults  and  would  degrade  you ;  if  that  happens 
and  your  heart  fails  you,  proving  weak,  recall  your 
mother's  words,  and  then  run  away  from  him." 
The  girl  listened  silently,  apparently  without  pay- 
ing much  attention,  yet  many  months  after,  this 
advice  recurred  to  her  with  startling  distinctness. 

At  this  time  Trevanion  was  on  one  of  his  wildest 
sprees.  Poor  Crissy  couldn't  even  say  good-bye  to 
him — she  dared  not  venture  to  do  so.  She  and  the 
mother  hastily  completed  their  arrangements  for 
the  journey,  talking  hopefully  together  like  two 
big  children;  these  simple  souls  knew  not  the  grav- 
ity of  their  undertaking,  what  dangerous  shoals, 
what  quicksands  would  lie  along  Crissy's  path;  to 
them  it  was  a  few  months  of  study  and  experience 
on  Crissy's  part,  then  approbation  and  quick  re- 
ward. The  papers  between  Mrs.  Trevanion  and 


i  6  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

the  Burtons  had  been  duly  signed  and  witnessed, 
to  the  effect  that  Miss  Crissy  Trevanion,  in  consid- 
eration of  her  professional  services,  should  receive 
from  the  Burtons  six  dollars  per  week,  as  well  as 
adequate  instruction  in  the  theatrical  profession, 
also  one  benefit  every  six  months,  the  proceeds 
of  such  benefit  over  and  above  its  expenses  to  be 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  beneficiary;  in  addition 
to  this,  that  her  traveling  expenses  and  living 
expenses  would  be  paid  by  said  Burtons  for  a  term 
not  exceeding  one  year  from  date.  The  mother 
tremblingly  implored  Mrs.  Burton  to  be  careful  of 
the  child,  then  with  many  tears  the  final  separation 
took  place.  It  must  be  confessed  that  as  Mrs. 
Trevanion  walked  slowly  home  her  feelings  par- 
took more  of  anticipation  and  triumph  than  actual 
sadness  ;  she  had  such  faith  in  Crissy's  powers — this 
child  was  to  lift  them  all  from  the  "  slough  of  des- 
pondency "  into  which  the  father  had  plunged 
them.  Crissy  had  little  time  for  homesickness,  as 
she  was  put  to  studying  a  part  at  once,  being  told 
by  Mrs.  Burton  that  she  had  better  study  it  during 
the  railroad  journey,  the  better  to  be  ready  for 
rehearsing  the  next  day.  Crissy  had  no  need  to  be 
told  twice ;  she  was  charmed  to  begin  her  duties — 
everything  delighted  her,  the  bustle  of  starting  for 
their  destination,  the  bustle  of  getting  to  it,  the 
being  packed  tightly,  like  sandwiches,  into  an  om- 
nibus and  driven  to  an  hotel,  then,  after  a  night  of 
such  intense  repose  as  falls  only  to  the  young — to 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  l^ 

sit  shyly  beside  Mrs.  Burton  at  the  long  breakfast 
table  as  that  lady  told  her  in  whispers  that  such  a 
young  man  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the  table, 
the  one  with  red  hair,  was  their  "  walking  gentle- 
man," that  the  fat  person  farther  down,  with  the 
good  natured  face,  was  their  "  heavy  villain,"  that  the 
extremely  cadaverous,  melancholy  gentleman,  with 
long  legs,  who  was  dressed  in  seedy  black,  was 
their  "  first  comedian."  Crissy  surveyed  these  per- 
sons with  astonishment,  also  some  trepidation — the 
comedian,  in  particular,  inspired  her  with  awe,  he 
took  his  food  with  such  an  air  of  overpowering  de- 
jection; when  Mrs.  Burton  called  out  a  morning 
salutation  to  him,  he  looked  ready  to  weep,  only 
responding  with  a  melancholy  wave  of  the  hand. 
Crissy,  whose  appetite  was  excellent,  soon  became 
too  much  occupied  with  her  breakfast  to  take  more 
notice  of  these  people;  at  a  later  hour  —  the  ten 
o'clock  rehearsal,  she  was  introduced  to  them  all 
in  form;  the  feeling  of  dislike  with  which  the 
comedian  inspired  her  was  not  lessened  when  she 
noticed  him  looking  at  her  in  a  disparaging  man- 
ner, and  remarking  that  she  was  much  too  young 
and  small  to  be  entrusted  with  the  part  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton had  assigned  her.  Crissy  inwardly  wondered 
if  it  always  made  men  cross  and  sad  to  play  com- 
edy. Her  wonder  increased  when  a  diminutive, 
very  young-looking  person  with  a  sweet  child -like 
face,  was  pointed  out  to  her  as  the  comedian's  wife; 
a  greater  contrast  than  this  pair  presented,  could 


1 8  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

not  be  imagined.  Crissy  longed  to  talk  to  this 
pretty  little  woman  at  once,  but  was  too  bashful  to 
do  so ;  she  was  unable  to  note  her  companions 
longer  as  the  rehearsal  of  her  part  claimed  pretty 
thorough  attention.  On  her  way  back  to  the  hotel 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burton,  she  heard  the  former 
say  to  his  wife  that  he  feared  the  town  had  not 
been  thoroughly  "  billed."  Crissy  was  puzzled  as 
to  the  meaning  of  this.  Burton  added,  that  the 
result  might  be  a  "  slim  house."  The  place  itself 
-was  a  lively  country  town  where  they  intended 
playing  only  one  night,  appearing  the  next  night 
in  a  town  some  distance  beyond.  That  evening, 
after  a  hasty  supper,  they  repaired  to  the  large  hall 
dubbed  by  courtesy  a  theatre.  Here  in  the  dressing 
room  Mrs.  Burton  initiated  Crissy  into  the  mysteries 
of  the  "  make-up;"  having  darkened  Crissy's  eyes 
after  the  conventional  manner,  rouged  her  cheeks 
and  lips,  and  so  forth,  she  proceeded  to  beautify 
herself,  keeping  up  a  continual  flow  of  conversa- 
tion as  she  did  so.  "  I  hope,  Crissy,"  she  said, 
"  that  you'll  not  suffer  from  stage  fright,  tho'  it  is 
an  understood  thing  that  the  harder  the  stage  fright 
a  woman  has,  the  better  actress  she  is  sure  to  turn 
out."  "What  does  it  feel  like?"  asked  Crissy, 
"  did  you  ever  have  it?"  "Oh,  yes!"  responded 
her  instructress,  "  I  suffered  dreadfully  from  it ;  you 
see  it  acts  differently  with  different  people,  some 
forget  their  lines  the  instant  they  set  foot  upon  the 
stage,  being  hardly  able  to  get  out  a  word,  even 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR,  19 

when  prompted  ;  others  tell  me  that  they  have  a 
feeling  of  deadly  faintness  and  sickness  when  they 
first  stand  behind  the  footlights.  But,  dear  me," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Burton,  "  it's  getting  quite  late, 
here  we  are  all  dressed,  yet  I  hear  no  stir  at  all!  " 
Just  then  came  a  tap  upon  the  door,  Mr.  Burton 
thrust  in  his  head  with  a  very  rueful  countenance: 
"Turned  out  as  I  half-feared  Lizzie- — we  didn't  bill 
the  thing  long  enough  ahead.  I'll  be  hanged  if 
there's  any  audience!  so  change  your  gowns  and 
come  home."  "  Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  as 
the  door  closed  upon  her  retreating  spouse,  "  just 
to  think  that  we  wasted  all  this  paint  and  powder!" 

As  they  trudged  back  to  the  hotel  Crissy 
thought  it  all  over — it  was  such  an  astonishing  thing 
that  they  should  have  no  audience.  That  night  in 
her  dreams  she  was  always  coming  on  the  stage 
with  rows  of  empty  benches  in  front  of  her  and  the 
powder  partly  washed  from  her  face.  The  next 
night  in  the  new  place  they  met  with  better  suc- 
cess; a  large  and  very  enthusiastic  crowd — judging 
from  the  noise  they  made — greeted  their  efforts. 
The  comedian  came  out  in  full  force — one  look  at 
his  woe-begone  countenance  as  he  stepped  toward 
the  footlights  would  provoke  the  wildest  hilarity, 
incessant  laughter  greeted  his  every  word;  when  he 
stalked  off  at  the  stage  exits  his  saturnine  face 
would  become  more  unprepossessing  than  ever,  as 
shouts  of  merriment  followed  his  departure. 

Crissy  told  Mrs.  Burton  that  she  didn't  see  how 


20  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

he  could  do  it ;  the  latter  laughed  and  said,  "  That 
was  acting!"  Crissy  did  so  well  in  the  role  she 
filled  that  the  Burtons  bestowed  warm  praises  on 
her.  Then  the  poor  child  went  to  bed  tired  but 
happy;  her  last  thought  as  she  fell  asleep  was  of 
h^r  mother.  Three  weeks  passed  in  this  manner,  the 
company  never  sojourning  longer  than  two  nights 
in  one  place;  varying  success  met  their  labors.  All 
this  time  Crissy  wrote  home  frequently,  giving 
lively  descriptions  of  their  surroundings  and  suc- 
cesses. Of  their  failures  she  never  wrote;  child-like, 
she  looked  always  upon  the  bright  side,  paying  lit- 
tle attention  to  the  occasional  mishaps  which  over- 
took these  poor  actors;  notwithstanding,  she  noted 
many  things.  She  had  been  wont  to  associate  the 
idea  of  theatrical  life  with  something  superior, 
feeling  quite  sure  that  the  people  who  devoted 
their  time  to  it  must  be  more  intellectual  than  the 
ordinary  run  of  mortals — now  she  discovered  them 
to  be  for  the  most  part  quite  commonplace.  They 
interlarded  their  conversation  with  slang  and 
strange  phrases,  rather  repellant  to  her  unaccus- 
tomed ears,  they  seemed  so  incongruous;  the  oddi- 
ties and  contradictions  of  that  abhorred  comedian 
appeared  to  be  repeated  to  a  modified  extent  in 
almost  all  the  rest.  Mrs.  Burton  and  her  little 
daughter,  a  child  of  eight  years,  realized  Crissy's 
ideals  more  closely;  the  former  was  a  finely  edu- 
cated woman  who  in  early  girlhood  made  the  mis- 
take of  running  away  from  a  comfortable  home  to 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  2  I 

marry  a  talented  but  poor  actor.  This  woman,  in 
spite  of  her  environments,  the  many  hardships  she 
had  passed  through,  preserved  her  gentleness  and 
a  purity  of  manner  not  always  found  in  women  of 
her  condition.  The  child,  carefully  reared  by  such 
a  mother,  was  a  lovely  being;  with  her  sweet  voice, 
golden  ringlets  and  pretty  features,  she  was  very 
engaging.  Crissy  became  close  friends  with  her  at 
once.  The  mother  encouraged  the  affection  be- 
tween these  children,  thrown  by  such  chances  of 
fortune  into  each  other's  companionship.  Crissy 
in  spare  hours  talked  with,  walked  with,  invented 
plays  and  toys  for  the  little  Leoline. 

By  the  end  of  the  third  week  of  their  wander- 
ings Crissy  made  another  discovery.  She  didn't 
know  exactly  why,  but  she  had  been  under  the 
impression  that  Burton  had  some  means  with 
which  to  push  his  enterprise;  from  a  portion  of  a 
conversation  she  heard  between  him  and  his  wife 
she  was  now  led  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was 
not  the  case.  Crissy  was  such  a  silent  girl  that 
people  seldom  noticed  her  proximity ;  thus  it 
chanced  that  they  often  spoke  quite  unreservedly 
in  her  presence.  One  day  she  heard  Burton  say- 
ing :  "I've  been  lucky  today— struck  a  fellow  with 
lots  of  money,  and  as  green  as  a  leek!  he's  per- 
fectly stage-struck!  talked  to  me  about  my  com- 
pany and  said  he  reckoned  there  was  heaps  to  be 
made  in  the  show  business,  and  said  he'd  like  to 
be  part  proprietor  in  such  a  show  as  mine.  Well,  I 


22  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

kind  of  led  him  on  and  sure  enough  the  fellow  had 
lots  of  cash,  for  he  showed  it  to  me;  so  we  struck 
a  bargain.  He  puts  in  all  he  has  against  my 
brains  and  experience ;  he  will  act  as  our  agent, 
going  ahead  to  advertise  and  make  all  the  business 
arrangements.  He  may  be  pretty  good  at  that — in 
fact,"  added  Burton,  reflectively,  "that's  about  all 
he  is  good  for ;  he  has  no  more  understanding  of 
theatricals  than  the  'man  in  the  moon,'  but  it's  a 
fine  thing  for  us;  the  new  partner  comes  in  to- 
morrow." The  partner  alluded  to  was  not  seen 
by  Crissy  for  a  week  subsequent  to  this  conver- 
sation. 

One  Sunday  evening,  as  she  sat  in  the  private 
parlor  with  Burton  and  his  family — by  the  way, 
this  was  previous  to  the  time  that  the  public  had 
learned  to  ask  for  Sunday  performances — Crissy, 
who  sat  near  the  door,  which  was  slightly  open,  be- 
came conscious  of  a  penetrating  and  somewhat  dis- 
agreeable odor.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  upon  the 
door;  to  the  summons  of  "Come  in!"  a  lank,  ill- 
dressed  man  appeared ;  every  feature  of  his  face 
proclaimed  him  what  is  called  "low,"  his  retreat- 
ing brow,  puckered  lips,  eyes  set  close  together, 
produced  anything  except  an  agreeable  impres- 
sion. When  Burton  greeted  him  by  name,  asking 
him  to  be  seated,  Crissy  knew  at  once  that  this 
must  be  the  new  partner;  at  the  same  moment,  too, 
she  became  thoroughly  cognizant  of  the  odor 
which  offended  her — it  was  decidedly  horse.  The 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  23 

man  sat  talking  with  Burton  for  an  hour.  Crissy 
saw  that  during  the  interview,  which  related  princi- 
pally to  advertising  and  general  business  of  the 
concern,  this  man  never  looked  anyone  in  the 
eyes.  His  orbs,  which  were  dark  and  narrow, 
seemed  to  be  playing  hide-and-seek  with  every- 
body in  the  room;  some  fascination  drew  Crissy's 
gaze  frequently  to  his  face,  but  he  never  looked 
squarely  at  her,  though  she  was  aware  that  he  re- 
garded her  with  covert  glances.  After  he  left  the 
room,  accompanied  by  Burton,  Mrs.  Burton  asked 
her  how  she  liked  Mr.  Smith.  "Not  at  all!"  an- 
swered Crissy  decidedly,  "he  is  horrible!  He 
smells  so  of  horses!"  "Well,"  exclaimed  her  pre- 
ceptress, in  surprise,  "I  never  noticed  that!  How- 
ever," she  added  with  a  smile,  "he  is  not  pleasant 
in  either  look  or  manner." 

As  a  couple  of  weeks  passed  by  Crissy  noticed 
another  peculiarity  of  Mr.  Smith's — he  was  very 
seldom  seen  by  any  of  the  company  of  whom  he 
was  the  financial  head;  he  did  not  stop  at  the  same 
hotels  with  them,  he  seemed  to  shun  speech  with 
any  one  except  Burton.  Owing  to  these  oddities 
remarks  of  an  uncomplimentary  turn  concerning 
him  could  frequently  be  heard  from  members  of 
the  company.  One  day  the  comedian,  who  never 
withheld  unfavorable  criticism  against  any  one,  was 
heard  saying  :  "That  fellow  Smith  behaves  like  a 
mean,  miserable,  slinking  hound,  going  about  the 
way  he  does.  I  came  upon  him  unexpectedly  on 


24  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR, 

the  street  the  other  day,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  he 
didn't  dodge  around  the  first  corner  to  avoid  me, — 
actually  looked  scared  at  the  sight  of  me!"  This 
statement  produced  a  general  smile,  for  the  come- 
dian's countenance  was  built  upon  a  plan  so  lugu- 
brious that  it  might  by  a  very  slight  effort  of  the 
imagination  be  supposed  to  strike  terror — or  senti- 
ments approximating  to  that — into  anybody. 

There  was  another  thing  which  began  to  press 
upon  Crissy's  conceptions  —  this  was  that  there 
seemed  something  out  of  the  way  with  Burton  him- 
self. In  appearance  he  was  a  tall,  handsome  man, 
with  aquiline  features  ;  he  belonged  to  the  class 
which  in  those  days  was  denominated  "  down  - 
caster."  He  had  the  quick,  nervous  manners  of 
his  race,  energetic  and  keen ;  he  was  a  fine  actor, 
especially  in  his  rendition  of  Yankee  character — 
not  the  Yankee  of  these  days,  but  the  "  stage  Yan- 
kee" of  thirty-four  years  ago,  the  one  all  spring 
and  sharpness,  who  came  before  the  footlights  in  a 
pair  of  striped  pants  tightly  strapped  down,  a  long- 
tailed  coat,  an  impossible  hat;  whose  dry  jokes  con- 
vulsed with  laughter  an  audience  always  apprecia- 
tive of  them,  whose  "local  hits"  always  hit  just 
right — a  delightful  and  good-  natured  caricature  of 
the  typical  Yankee  ;  this  character  is  rapidly  disap- 
pearing, if  not  altogether  obsolete,  from  the  mod- 
ern stage.  Burton  was  a  man  nearing  middle  age 
when  Crissy  was  put  in  his  care  ;  somewhat  brusque, 
yet  kind  in  his  manners,  he  treated  Crissy  as  he 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  25 

did  his  own  child,  taking  pains  in  her  instruction, 
firmly  correcting  her  stage  faults. 

Crissy  became  conscious  of  a  vague  anxiety 
in  her  observations  of  him  ;  first  she  felt  this 
through  seeing  the  glances  his  wife  sometimes 
cast  upon  him  —  searching,  yet  fearful,  long 
looks,  which  trembled  in  the  balance  between 
hope  and  dread ;  she  had  observed  her  mother 
looking  at  her  father  thus,  hundreds  of  times. 
A  thought  presented  itself  which  caused  Crissy 
to  shudder ;  could  it  be  that  she  had  left 
misery  and  despair  at  her  own  fireside  only  to  find 
herself  afloat  again  upon  that  dreadful  sea  which 
wrecks  home,  honor,  life  itself  ?  These  fears  soon 
became  confirmed,  for,  during  a  rather  stormy  in- 
terview held  between  Smith  and  Burton  in  the  pri- 
vate apartments  of  the  latter,  it  became  unmistakably 
evident  that  Burton  was  intoxicated.  That  Crissy 
was  so  often  present  on  these  occasions  was  because 
Mrs.  Burton  kept  the  girl  always  near  her,  for,  as 
Mrs.  Burton  truly  and  bitterly  remarked  to  her  hus- 
band, "the  mere  fact  of  Crissy  being  an  actress 
would  expose  her  to  continual  insult."  The  after- 
noon of  this  particular  day  in  question  Mr.  Smith 
was  urging  Burton  to  move  the  company  on  more 
rapidly,  saying  that  in  the  West  they  could  play  to 
big  houses— that  these  eastern  towns  didn't  pay. 
Burton  angrily  denied  this  statement,  calling  to 
witness  the  excellent  houses  they  played  to  in  this 
very  town,  where  they  had  been  two  days.  Smith, 


26  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

who  was  generally  very  reticent,  being  what  is 
termed  a  "slow  talker,0  became  rather  excited  and 
anxious  in  advancing  his  views  on  the  moving 
westward  at  once.  When  he  found  that  Burton 
would  not  do  it,  he  exclaimed  coarsely,  "  It's  easy 
to  see  why  I  can't  get  you  to  listen  to  reason, 
you're  drunk!"  Burton  sprang  to  his  feet  with 
clenched  hands  and  flashing  eyes,  his  wife  ran  to  his 
side  to  quiet  him  ;  just  then  there  was  a  commotion 
at  the  door,  heavy  footsteps,  loud  voices,  Smith 
turned  deadly  pale,  running  as  if  by  instinct  to  the 
window,  which  he  endeavored  to  raise ;  the  door 
was  thrown  violently  open,  two  stalwart  policemen 
entered,  with  them  a  little  man  shabbily  dressed, 
who  held  a  written  document  in  his  hand.  The  little 
man  called  out,  "  Smith,  alias  Henly,  I  arrest  you 
for  horse  stealing."  The  policemen  came  each  side 
of  Smith,  who,  turning  with  a  savage  look  upon  his 
sullen  face,  fronted  the  occupants  of  the  room. 
"This  is  your  fault,"  he  said  to  Burton;  "if  you 
had  gone  on  as  fast  as  I  wanted  you  to,  they  could 
not  have  caught  me  ;  you  can  take  your  company 
where  you  please  now  !  to  hell  if  you  like.  I've 
stolen  horses  right  along  to  keep  your  d — d  ex- 
penses paid  !  you've  lived  well,  too,"  he  added, 
with  a  sarcastic  grin,  giving  a  last  defiant  look  at 
Burton  as  he  was  led  from  the  room.  The  woman 
and  Crissy  listened  to  all  this  in  silent  terror.  Burton 
ank  into  a  chair,  almost  sobered  by  the  shock. 
After  a  few  minutes  his  wife  said  pointedly,  "  One 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  27 

needs  to  keep  a  clear  head  in  this  business ;  you'll 
have  to  look  into  things  at  once,  Burton.  Here  we 
are  living  in  the  most  expensive  hotel  in  town  ;  a 
good -sized  company,  two  days'  board  for  all  may 
be  a  serious  matter  if  unpaid ;  you  can't  tell  what 
position  this  man  has  left  you  in.  For  my 
part,"  she  continued,  "I  would  much  prefer 
that  right  along  we  had  stopped  at  second  or 
even  third  -  class  houses,  and  avoided  so  much 
expense."  "It  couldn't  be  helped  !"  said  Burton 
desperately.  " Smith  was  bound  to  have  it  so! 
He  said  living  in  style,  hiring  carriages,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  would  create  a  favorable  impres- 
sion and  bring  in  trade,  as  he  called  it!  "  He  said 
this  last  with  a  grimace.  Burton  found  his  wife's 
words  prophetic.  Mr.  Smith  had  ordered  for  all 
the  best  that  the  place  afforded  ;  being  nabbed 
before  he  had  time  to  dispose  of  his  last  venture  in 
horse-flesh,  he  had  not  liquidated  these  little  bills. 
The  landlord,  being  quickly  apprised  of  the  state 
of  affairs,  came  at  once  to  Burton's  room  to  have 
speech  with  him  upon  the  subject ;  the  corridors 
were  filled  with  groups  of  people  talking  excitedly 
over  the  affair.  Crissy  felt  her  cheeks  burn  with 
shame  as  the  stout,  coarse,  but  good-natured  land- 
lord said  to  Burton,  "  You're  in  a  pretty  fix  now, 
with  this  horse  -  thieving  fellow;  you'll  have  to  see 
what  can  be  done  about  what's  owing  me  and  others 
unless  you  have  plenty  of  money  by  you  to 
straighten  out  these  things."  Burton  was  obliged 


28  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

to  admit  his  inability  to  do  so,  Smith  had  managed 
both  receipts  and  expenditures.  "The  only  facul- 
ties," Burton  said,  angrily,  "Smith  had,  seemed 
to  be  those  of  managing  money  and  stealing  horses, 
though,  of  course,  the  last  accomplishment  no  one 
but  Smith  himself  had  been  aware  of."  Then 
Burton  and  the  landlord  summoned  the  members 
of  the  company  into  the  room  and  held  a  consulta- 
tion on  "  ways  and  means."  Crissy  sat  sadly  in  a  cor- 
ner, listening  to  this  curious  confab;  the  degrees  of 
impecuniosity  confessed  by  all  of  these  poor  actors 
was  astonishing  ;  in  fact,  their  impecuniosities  ap- 
peared measureless!  The  good-natured  landlord 
looked  from  one  to  another  in  perplexity.  "  Well! " 
he  exclaimed  at  last,  "there's  only  one  thing  to  do; 
the  longer  I  keep  you  here  the  worse  off  I  am.  I 
could  keep  your  baggage,  of  course,  but  I  opine  that 
it  wouldn't  be  worth  much  ;  so  just  go  right  on  and 
play  to  -  night,  perhaps  when  the  proceeds  are 
divided  up  you'll  have  enough  to  carry  you  out  of 
town  ;  if  there's  any  over,"  he  added,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye,  "just  let  me  have  it  on  account,  that's 
all." 

This  being  on  the  whole  a  very  kind  arrange- 
ment for  the  landlord  to  make,  all  acceded  to  it 
joyfully.  After  that  functionary  left  the  room  they 
all  with  one  accord  fell  upon  Burton  with  violent 
vituperations.  Why  had  he  —  Burton  —  been  so 
short-sighted?  Wasn't  the  man  Smith  a  scoundrel 
on  his  very  face?  Here  had  Burton  decoyed  them 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  29 

from  their  homes,  perhaps  from  better  engage- 
ments, to  strand  them  in  a  far-away  place ;  what 
excuses  could  he  offer  for  treating  them  this  way? 
The  comedian  was  the  fiercest  of  them  all.  He 
stalked  up  and  down  the  room  uttering  the  most 
dreadful  denunciations  ;  poor  Crissy  fairly  trembled 
under  his  wrath.  When  the  excitement  consequent 
upon  these  recriminations  had  somewhat  subsided 
Burton  told  them  calmly  that  as  they  felt  so 
aggrieved,  the  best  thing  for  them  to  do  would  be 
to  cancel  their  engagements  with  him  and  go  their 
separate  ways ;  they  knew  that  all  along  they  had 
been  playing  to  very  poor  business ;  there  was  lit- 
tle hope  for  any  better;  let  them  then  divide  what 
they  would  take  in  this  night,  and  separate.  Two 
of  them  declared  their  intention  of  sticking  by 
Burton,  the  rest  grumblingly  closed  with  his  propo- 
sition. Fortunately  for  the  stranded  actors  they 
had  a  good  house  that  night.  At  the  end  of  the 
performance  they  all  met  by  arrangement  in  Burton's 
apartments,  where  the  results  of  their  last  appear- 
ance together  were  evenly  divided  ;  each  one  looked 
rather  sharply  after  his  or  her  share,  but  the 
wrangling  of  the  afternoon  seemed  done  away 
with.  Had  Burton  been  more  reliable,  they  would 
probably,  at  least  the  greater  portion  of  them, 
remained  by  him  ;  as  it  was  they  felt  that  they  were 
leaving  a  sinking  ship  and  had  the  right  to  do  so. 
The  two  exceptions,  both  men,  declared  openly 
that  they  intended  going  on  with  him  to  the  Far 


30  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

West ;  a  young  man  named  George,  a  callow  youth, 
was  one  of  them.  He  was  a  good  -  hearted,  loud, 
enthusiastic  talking  fellow,  full  of  hope,  and  really 
sorry  for  the  position  Burton's  indiscretions  had 
placed  his  family  in.  This  ingenuous  youth  rea- 
soned with  himself  thus  :  "There's  poor  little  Crissy, 
too  !  what  is  likely  to  become  of  her?  I  guess  I'll 
stick  by  them  and  see  this  thing  through." 

The  other  exception  was  a  middle-aged  man,  a 
musician,  one  of  the  orchestra  Burton  had  attached 
to  his  company.  This  man  had  apparently  no 
domestic  ties  to  trouble  him,  and  said  merrily  that 
he  could  afford  to  take  his  chances. 

The  ensuing  morning  all  started.  The  animosity 
they  had  previously  exhibited  to  Burton  had  quite 
gone  now ;  the  careless  souls,  living,  as  they  did, 
"  from  hand  to  mouth,"  thought  of  this  only  as  one 
of  the  incidentals  of  their  lives.  The  remainder 
then  hastily  arranged  their  plan  of  campaign. 
"There's  only  one  thing  we  can  do  now"  said 
Burton  ;  "  travel  as  a.  family,  that'll  be  quite  a  card — 
tell  you  it's  a  taking  thing  now-a-days ;  call  our- 
selves the  Burton  Family."  "But,"  urged  George, 
"how  can  we  play  anything,  so  few  of  us,  only  two 
women  and  three  men ;  don't  see  how  we'll  man- 
age it!"  "Just  look  here,"  explained  Burton, 
"I'll  figure  it  all  out  for  you:  two  women,  true 
enough,  but  you  forget  the  child,  she'll  be  a  good 
deal  to  us.  Bless  your  heart,  we  can  play  lots  of 
things  by  doubling.  Got  plays  of  my  own,  my 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  31 

boy,  in  MSS. ;  they'll  be  worth  lots  to  us  ;  can  cut 
and  adapt  them  to  suit  emergencies."  "You're  a 
smart  man  ! "  cried  George,  admiringly  ;  "  most 
fellows  would  lose  heart,  but  you  take  hold  of  your 
difficulties  in  fine  shape."  "Then,  as  for  orches- 
tra," went  on  Burton,  smiling,  "we  have  Snidacker 
here !  he  can  play  on  anything !  he'll  be  a  host  in 
himself;  he  can  furnish  music  enough."  "What," 
gasped  George,  "an  orchestra  composed  of  only 
one!''1  "That  doesn't  matter,"  answered  Burton, 
sturdily;  "remember  we  travel  as  a  family  now; 
can't  afford  more  than  one  musical  brother  in  a 
family  small  as  ours.  As  this  landlord  is  so  kind 
to  us,  the  best  thing  we  can  do  now  is  to  pack  up 
and  make  for  the  first  smart  town ;  we  can  look 
over  some  plays  with  a  short  cast,  and  plan  out  the 
first  performance  as  we  go  along ;  after  a  few  days 
we  can  get  something  the  child  will  work  into — for 
instance,  'King  Charles,'  in  'Faint  Heart  Never 
Won  Fair  Lady.'  A  child  is  very  pleasing  before 
the  footlights ;  Crissy  will  help  to  teach  her." 

This  being  settled,  the  small  remnant  of  the  show 
was  soon  on  the  road  again.  All  had  been  trans- 
acted so  quickly  that  when  Crissy  found  herself  on 
the  train  once  more  she  had  no  opportunity  for 
uninterrupted  reflection,  for,  as  they  journeyed 
along,  the  little  party  looked  over  plays  and  MSS. 
together,  even  the  child,  who  seemed  to  take  an 
odd  pleasure  in  finding  herself  a  working  member 
of  the  group,  volunteered  suggestions.  Burton 


32  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

bent  all  his  energies  to  this  new  task.  He  eschewed 
liquor,  being  the  genial,  painstaking  soul  that 
Crissy  had  first  known  him  ;  his  wife  was  equally 
happy.  She  conversed  with  Crissy  on  the  ever- 
momentous  question  of  "wardrobe."  She  found, 
on  their  first  acquaintance,  that  the  girl  was  remark- 
ably ignorant  of  the  art  of  sewing,  so  the  older 
woman  imparted  knowledge  to  her  in  this  indis- 
pensable adjunct  to  feminine  learning ;  together 
they  planned  many  interesting  costumes,  where 
gossamer  materials  and  wall-paper  flowers  figured 
conspicuously.  From  this  time  out  they  would 
have  a  good  deal  of  such  planning  and  alteration 
on  account  of  the  doubling  of  parts.  Mrs.  Burton 
said,  "  You'll  learn  to  make  these  changes  of  dress 
very  rapidly  when  you  double  so  much ;  every 
second  counts  then.  It  will  be  just  as  well  for  you 
to  learn  this ;  really,  you  will  get  on  much  faster  in 
understanding  professional  duties  than  if  we  had 
remained  as  we  first  started  out." 

George's  reasons  for  remaining  with  Burton 
have  been  slightly  touched  upon  before;  he  had 
the  additional  one  that  in  traveling  westward  he 
would  also  be  journeying  homeward.  This  youth 
was  the  red-headed  one  pointed  out  to  Crissy  on 
that  first  memorable  morning  as  "our  walking  gen- 
tleman." When  they  made  their  plans  together 
after  the  breakup  of  the  company,  this  youth  was 
the  most  sanguine  of  all.  He  talked  incessantly  of 
what  they  might  be  able  to  accomplish,  of  the 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  33 

good  luck  they  might  have ;  he  adduced  examples 
of  what  a  few  people  had  done  in  traveling  theatri- 
cals. He  told  them  with  considerable  verbosity 
that  his  abilities,  such  as  they  were,  would  be  en- 
tirely at  their  disposal — for  instance,  he  might  say, 
without  incurring  the  accusation  of  selfpraise,  that 
he  was  quite  a  hand  with  the  brush.  Give  him 
some  big  paper,  a  brush  and  colors,  he'd  turn  out 
posters  for  them  that  would  astonish  the  natives. 
Really  there  was  nothing  more  captivating  to  the 
rural  imagination  than  posters,  your  big  red,  blue 
and  yellow  ones,  that  would  cover  a  whole  fence! 
He  then  proceeded  at  great  length  to  tell  of  com- 
panies who  had  made  independent  fortunes  by  the 
judicious  use  of  such  conspicuous  advertising. 
Mrs.  Burton  responded  that  such  talents  as 
George's  should  not  be  wasted,  that  upon  arriving 
at  their  destination  he  should  go  to  work  at  once 
upon  the  preparation  of  these  colored  productions. 
Crissy  thought  that,  after  all,  they  seemed  much 
happier  together  since  their  misfortunes  than  they 
had  ever  been  before.  Her  acquaintance  with 
George  the  voluble  might  be  said  to  date  from 
this  period.  Snidacker  the  musician  listened  to 
these  plans  with  a  benign  smile,  saying  that  he 
would  do  all  he  could  for  them  in  the  musical  way, 
also  working  in  on  general  utility.  Of  the  private 
sentiments  leading  to  Mr.  Snidacker's  desire  to  re- 
main with  them,  more  will  be  said  hereafter. 

Fortune,  for  a  time  at  least,  seemed  to  smile  upon 


34  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

the  little  party.  As  one  family  on  the  bills,  they 
made  quite  a  startling  impression  of  the  versatility 
and  talent  sometimes  to  be  found  in  a  single  fam- 
ily. In  the  meantime  Crissy  and  Mrs.  Burton 
carefully  instructed  the  child  in  the  characters  of 
"King  Charles"  and  "Eva."  At  the  time  we 
write  of,  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  was  one  of  the 
"big  cards"  in  the  northern  theatres;  owing  to  the 
great  stir  being  made  by  the  abolitionists,  this  play 
generally  drew  well  whenever  presented.  It  was 
not  the  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  of  the  present  day.  It 
was  an  eminently  respectable  play,  in  comparison 
with  the  wretched  travesty  presented  to  the  public 
own.  It  was  a  six-act  play,  taking  a  long,  some- 
times a  very  long,  evening  to  play  it  through.  The 
eloquent  language,  Mrs.  Stowe's  own,  was  to  a 
great  extent  retained.  The  Eva  of  those  times 
always  created  strong  sympathy,  especially  when — 
as  in  Leoline's  case — the  child  bore  so  close  a  re- 
semblance in  form  and  feature  to  the  beautiful 
original.  The  child  learned  with  great  rapidity; 
she  understood  thoroughly  the  expression  she 
should  put  into  her  lines.  Crissy  was  charmed  by 
so  apt  a  pupil,  looking  forward  with  pleasure  to 
the  production  of  this  play  by  their  little  family, 
though  with  any  amount  of  doubling,  they 
scarcely  saw  how  they  could  put  it  on.  In  "  Faint 
Heart "  and  kindred  plays  they  managed  nicely. 
Leoline's  success  as  Prince  Charles  was  very  flat- 
tering. When  the  boy's  slight  form,  with  his  wealth 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  35 

of  golden  ringlets  hanging  over  his  shoulders,  clam- 
bered in  at  the  window,  he  was  invariably  greeted 
with  shouts  of  delighted  applause.  They  had  now 
by  slow  degrees  journeyed  considerably  westward. 
Crissy  was  continually  finding  new  cause  for  won- 
derment and  laughter  in  the  odd  fancies  of  her 
friend  George.  He  said  frequently,  "wait  till  you 
see  Chicago!  that'll  be  a  treat  I  can  tell  you;  I 
was  born  there."  "Indeed!"  said  Crissy  quietly, 
"  is  that  the  circumstance  which  makes  that  city  so 
far  ahead  of  all  others?"  George  laughed  good 
naturedly.  "You  can't  form  an  idea  of  the 
splendor  of  my  native  city  until  you  see  it,  it 
really  is  something  to  be  proud  of;  the  fact  of  hav- 
ing been  born  there."  "/was  born  in  a  very  fine 
town  in  England,"  said  Crissy,  "but  I  never 
thought  of  making  a  boast  of  it."  "  England," 
answered  George  contemptuously,  "why  all  the 
cities  and  towns  in  England  are  old.  What  makes 
Chicago  so  wonderful  is  its  youth.  Just  imagine 
it,  that  thirty  years  ago,  nothing  more  than  a  few 
miserable  log  cabins  and  the  like  stood  where  a 
city  is  now  stretching  its  long  arms  upon  the  lake 
shore."  Then  George  went  on  to  tell  Crissy  a 
very  thrilling  story,  which  she  couldn't  thoroughly 
understand,  of  how  his,  George's  father,  would 
have  died  a  rich  man,  if  some  canal  running 
through  the  city  and  projected  by  said  father  had 
only  been  accepted  by  the  council,  or  by  some 
body  of  men,  at  the  proper  time.  But,  as  it  turned 


36  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

out  unfortunately  that  George's  father  expired  be- 
fore any  of  these  hopes  could  be  fulfilled,  his 
mother  kept  a  boarding  house,  assisted  by  his 
younger  sister,  that  he  and  his  brothers  did  what 
they  could  to  help  the  old  lady,  hence  his — 
George's — wandering  life.  Being  convinced  that 
he  had  dramatic  talent,  he  was  determined  to  keep 
on  in  this  line  until  he  learned  his  chosen  profes- 
sion. Crissy,  finding  him  a  congenial  spirit  in  his 
dramatic  aspirations,  imparted  to  him  in  turn  some 
of  her  hopes  and  fears.  George  listened  sympa- 
thetically, telling  her  to  count  him  her  friend  in 
everything.  A  few  days  succeeding  this  time,  the 
"family"  lost  one  of  its  members,  receiving  a 
severe  mental  shock  simultaneously.  Mr.  Snid- 
acker  had  proved  as  good  as  his  word  about  making 
himself  generally  useful;  he  played  touching  selec- 
tions between  the  acts  for  them;  furnished  slow 
or  fast  music  for  the  scenes  as  occasion  demanded, 
came  on  sometimes  as  heavy  old  man.  He  was  so 
quiet  and  reliable,  that  Burton  often  said  he  didn't 
see  how  they  would  get  on  without  Snidacker. 

It  chanced  that  the  town  they  were  stopping  at 
had,  for  that  very  afternoon,  a  counter  attraction, 
a  "  circus," — the  regular  old  fashioned  circus,  ele- 
phant and  all!  It  is  an  odd  thing  that  profession- 
als, though  they  abhor  circuses,  considered  from  a 
caste  point  of  view,  can  seldom  resist  going  to 
them.  At  that  time  it  was  a  courtesy  extended  to  all 
professionals,  that  they  were  admitted  free  of  charge 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  37 

to  any  entertainment  of  this  nature.  At  dinner 
time,  Burton  and  George  laughingly  proclaimed 
their  intention  of  dropping  in  to  take  a  look  at 
this  show.  They  went  accordingly.  Shortly  after, 
Crissy  was  passing  alone  through  one  of  the  cor- 
ridors of  the  hotel  when  she  met  Snidacker.  "Lit- 
tle girl,"  he  said  kindly,  "  you'd  like  to  go  to  the 
circus,  wouldn't  you?"  Crissy's  face  beamed  with 
pleasure,  "  O  yes,"  she  answered.  "  Then  run,  put 
on  your  bonnet,"  he  said,  "  I'll  take  you  there  right 
away."  "  I'll  have  to  ask  Mrs.  Burton,  first,"  said 
Crissy,  rather  startled  by  his  suddenness.  "  Never 
mind  then,"  he  said  crossly,  "I  can't  wait,  it's  late 
now!  "  With  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  was 
gone  in  an  instant.  Crissy  felt  surprised,  some- 
what disappointed,  too,  but  girl-like  forgot  the  cir- 
cumstance in  a  short  time,  not  even  remembering 
to  mention  it  to  Mrs.  Burton. 

In  this  town  they  were  making  a  two-nights 
"  stand."  The  next  afternoon  Crissy  was  walking 
rapidly  along  the  main  street,  holding  in  her  hand 
some  little  purchase  Mrs.  Burton  had  sent  her  out 
for,  when  she  came  upon  Snidacker  again  unex- 
pectedly. He  darted  around  a  corner,  and  catch- 
ing her  by  the  hand,  said  excitedly,  "  Mrs.  Burton 
sent  me  after  you,  they  have  changed  all  their  plans; 
won't  play  here  to-night,  go  by  a  train  which  leaves 
here  in  ten  minutes.  She  told  me  to  bring  you  to 
the  train  at  once,  so  come  along!"  "Oh!"  cried 
Crissy,  catching  her  breath  with  surprise,  "  how 


38  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

can  it  be?  She  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it 
when  I  left  the  hotel!"  "Come  on,"  said  the  man, 
impatiently,  "  the  train  goes  in  ten  minutes."  "  Go 
to  the  train  then,"  said  Crissy,  "  as  soon  as  I  get 
the  parcel  I  left  in  this  store,  I'll  join  you."  As 
she  spoke,  she  motioned  toward  a  store  close  by. 
"  Hurry  then!  "  cried  Snidacker,  as  he  made  hastily 
in  the  direction  of  the  depot.  Crissy  disappeared 
into  the  store  to  emerge  in  an  instant  breathlessly 
from  a  side  door  of  that  edifice,  opening  on  an- 
other street,  where  she  took  to  her  heels  for  the 
hotel.  A  few  moments  later  she  found  herself 
panting  in  the  middle  of  Mrs.  Burton's  room;  the 
latter^  seated  quietly  at  her  sewing  with  Leoline 
near  her,  rose  in  astonishment  as  Crissy,  hot  and 
disheveled,  tore  into  the  apartment.  "  You  are 
not  going  then! "  exclaimed  Crissy;  "why  did  he 
tell  me  to  go  on  that  train?  what  does  it  all 
mean?"  Mrs.  Burton  tried  to  calm  the  excited 
girl  sufficiently  to  get  the  true  state  of  affairs  from 
her;  the  surprise  of  the  older  woman  was  unbound- 
ed. "  It's  a  fortunate  thing  you  used  some  judg- 
ment in  this,  Crissy,  and  came  here  first  to  make 
sure  of  the  truth  of  his  statements,"  said  her  pre- 
ceptress, gravely.  "  I  will  send  for  Mr.  Burton  at 
once  to  have  this  looked  into."  The  looking  into 
only  developed  the  unmistakable  fact  that  Mr. 
Snidacker  had  left,  and  that  he  intended  to  have 
taken  Crissy  as  his  companion,  had  the  girl  shown 
that  implicit  confidence  in  what  he  told  her,  that 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  39 

he  evidently  expected  she  would.  This  turn  sur- 
prised all,  but  no  one  more  than  Crissy.  She  did 
not  realize  how  great  her  escape  had  been.  Mrs. 
Burton  looked  after  her  more  closely  than  ever 
from  that  time  out;  she  also  gave  her  some  warn- 
ings for  the  future. 

Many  and  unexpected  as  had  been  the  vicissi- 
tudes attending  her  stage  career,  this  last  episode 
astonished  Crissy  the  most.  She  never  wrote  a 
word  of  it  to  her  mother,  for  she  saw  from  the 
gravity  of  Burton  and  his  wife  that  they  regarded 
it  very  seriously.  Thinking  it  all  over,  she  con- 
cluded it  would  be  better  for  a  time  at  least  not  to 
let  her  mother  know  how  very  different  the  stage  of 
reality  was  to  that  of  their  expectations.  The  loss 
of  Snidacker  crippled  them  greatly;  they  had  to 
have  some  music,  and  hired  it  from  place  to  place. 
This  was  precarious  as  well  as  expensive. 

Even  under  this  misfortune  George's  spirits,  as 
usual,  rose  triumphant.  "  Wait  till  we  strike  the 
Far  West,"  he  said,  "then  we'll  get  big  business 
and  lots  of  cash!  Tell  you,  the  westerners  are  the 
people  for  fun  and  generosity;  hard  work  to  squeeze 
money  from  these  eastern  fellows,  they  are  natural- 
ly stingy,  they  count  every  cent,  they  do;  but  from 
Chicago,  westward,  everything  will  be  booming!  " 
George's  high  hopes  scarcely  seemed  likely  to  be 
realized,  for  this  was  an  unfortunate  time  finan- 
cially for  the  whole  world  of  amusement  in  this 
country.  The  nation  was  occupied  by  agitations 


40  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

so  intense,  thoughts  so  momentous,  that  very  little 
time  was  given  to  patronizing  pleasure;  money, 
too,  was  tight,  very  tight,  people  in  the  lower  and 
middle  walks  of  life  found  it  as  much  as  they  could 
do  to  "  make  all  ends  meet."  Amusement  being  a 
luxury,  could  be  dispensed  with;  even  now,  the 
throes  of  that  great  convulsion  which  armed  brother 
against  brother  in  our  civil  war,  began  to  shake 
the  nation  through  every  fiber;  only  a  half  interest 
was  felt  in  anything  which  did  not  relate  to  the 
great  topics  of  the  day. 

In  spite  of  themselves  the  party  could  not 
resist  being  somewhat  cheered  by  George's  glow- 
ing pictures  of  the  West ;  hope  had  carried  them 
through  so  many  ups  and  downs  they  surely 
could  wait  a  little  longer  for  the  golden  rewards. 
One  stormy  evening  in  December  they  arrived  in 
Chicago  and  put  up  at  the  old  Girard  house. 
This  landmark  of  Chicago  has  long  since  departed. 
A  light  snow  was  falling,  which,  mingled  with  the 
black  mud  of  the  streets,  made  walking  horrible — 
the  air  was  smoky  and  heavy.  Crissy  shook 
with  cold  as  the  raw  wind  from  the  Jvake  struck 
her  slight  figure.  Leoline  with  a  child's  frankness 
called  out:  "Oh  George!  your  city  is  dreadful,  I 
don't  like  it  one  bit!"  The  weary  party  reached 
this  point  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night ;  they  retired 
to  their  needed  rest  as  soon  as  possible;  they  had 
no  intention  of  making  a  stay  in  the  city — they 
wanted  to  push  right  on — but  railroad  travel  in 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  41 

those  days  was  not  what  it  is  now ;  they  suffered 
exasperating  delays  very  often  in  making  their 
connections.  The  next  morning  Crissy  was  astir 
early,  being  anxious  to  take  a  look  at  George's 
boasted  birth-place.  As  she  stepped  from  the 
hotel  the  first  thing  which  riveted  her  gaze  was 
the  lake.  After  the  storm  of  the  previous  evening 
the  morning  broke  sunny  and  clear ;  far  away 
spread  the  blue  water,  reflecting  sun  and  sky  in 
prismatic  hues.  Crissy  looked  at  it  enraptured. 
Oddly  enough,  this — the  crowning  glory  of  his 
western  home — George  had  said  little  about.  She 
then  turned  her  footsteps  along  the  streets, 
inspecting  all  about  her  with  girlish  inquisitiveness. 
As  she  walked  slowly  along  George  overtook  her; 
she  was  on  Lake  street,  climbing  laboriously  up  a 
long  flight  of  rough  wooden  steps.  What  an  odd 
place  it  was,  to  be  sure,  for  she  had  scarcely  gone 
thirty  feet  on  the  level  when  she  had  to  descend 
again;  then  another  flight  of  stairs.  "Well," 
inquired  George  airily,  "how  do  you  like  it?" 
"Like!"  answered  Crissy,  "I  really  can't  say,  it's 
the  strangest  place  I  ever  was  in!"  She  turned 
interested  looks  on  magnificent  buildings,  to  her 
eyes  marvels  of  architecture,  standing  on  either  side 
of  a  broad  but  desperately  muddy  thoroughfare, 
with  always — every  few  steps — this  business  of 
climbing  up,  then  down  again.  "  You  don't  like 
the  stairs,"  said  George  complacently.  "That's  all 
right,  they're  just  raising  to  grade — when  this  street 


42  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

is  finished  it  will  be  the  finest  in  the  world." 
Crissy  glanced  quickly  at  her  companion  to  see  if 
he  was  serious;  he  certainly  was — he  spoke  from  the 
depths  of  conviction.  "Perhaps,"  said  the  girl 
timidly,  "you  may  be  right,  I  don't  know  much 
about  such  matters,  but  at  present  it's  very  uncom- 
fortable and  incongruous. "  She  relapsed  into 
silence  during  the  balance  of  the  walk.  But  not  so 
George.  He  entered  into  elaborate  explanations  of 
all  the  improvements  planned  for  the  city  of  his 
love,  the  brilliancy  of  its  future.  Crissy  finally 
interrupted  these  rhapsodies  to  lament  that  it  was 
so  very  flat,  not  a  hill  in  sight — it  would  be  so 
much  prettier  if  hilly.  "  Hills  do  not  amount  to 
anything,"  said  George,  contemptuously,  "they're 
only  a  bother!  If  we  want  hills  very  badly  we  can 
make  them  after  a  while. "  Crissy  laughed  at  this. 
They  then  repaired  to  the  hotel  where,  after  a  hur- 
ried breakfast,  they  were  soon  on  the  road  again. 
During  this  journey  George  was  not  as  loquacious 
as  usual  owing  to  his  intense  weariness.  He 
informed  Mrs.  Burton  that  he  spent  the  previous 
night  in  conversing  with  his  family  about  his  past 
adventures ;  having  only  a  few  hours  in  which  to 
do  this,  he  had  been  unable  to  get  any  sleep ;  this 
solace  he  soon  secured,  however,  aboard  the  train, 
though  it  was  rough  traveling  those  times. 

They  took  in  the  small  towns  along  their  route. 
An  unusually  severe  winter  was  closing  in  upon 
them  ;  they  began  to  think  seriously  of  giving  up 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  43 

the  plan  of  reaching  the  Mississippi  in  time  to 
accomplish  anything  that  winter.  Now,  too,  Bur- 
ton's besetting  sin  assailed  him  again.  This  made 
their  mode  of  living  even  more  precarious  than  it 
had  been,  for  at  these  times  he  was  so  little  to  be 
depended  on  that  on  several  occasions  his  wife  was 
obliged  to  don  his  costume  and  take  his  place  be- 
fore the  footlights.  Nothing  much  was  said  by  any- 
one about  Burton's  eccentricities  ;  they  all  made  the 
best  of  the  misfortunes  caused  by  him.  From  the 
time  that  the  remnant  of  the  company  merged  into 
one  family  on  the  bills,  Crissy  had  always  appeared 
as  Crissy  Burton.  When  Mr.  Snidecker  took  his 
sudden  departure  it  was  decided  that  from  that  time 
out  it  should  be  understood,  wherever  they  went, 
that  Crissy  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burton's  own  daugh- 
ter. George  was  the  only  one  outside  of  them- 
selves cognizant  of  the  truth;  he  would  say  nothing; 
it  was  thought  that  this  might  prove  a  protection  to 
Crissy  in  the  future;  she,  poor  child,  began  to 
think  that  she  really  ought  to  write  to  her  mother 
acquainting  her  with  the  true  condition  of  affairs. 
Then  she  would  steal  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Burton's  pale, 
sad  face,  near  the  pensive  countenance  of  the  little 
Leoline,  and  change  her  mind.  Another  feeling, 
too,  moved  powerfully  against  telling  her  mother 
all ;  this  \v 'as  pride.  It  would  be  such  a  blow  to  the 
anticipations  of  all  at  home.  Her  time  was  not  lost 
either ;  she  was  learning  more  every  day;  she 
couldn't  reasonably  expect  to  gain  much  more  than 


44  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

knowledge  the  first  year.  There  was  more  to  learn 
in  this  than  her  mother  had  ever  dreamed  of ;  no, 
she  would  go  on  leading  this  vagabond  existence 
for  awhile  longer.  She  would  not  turn  back  at  this 
early  stage;  she  would  remain  at  it  until  she  could 
demonstrate  her  own  capacities,  for  she  now  felt 
serious  doubts ;  she  began  to  realize  that  possibly 
she  had  mistaken  her  calling ;  this  was  the  bitterest 
disappointment  of  all ;  she  would  make  sure,  though, 
by  waiting.  In  a  large  town  in  Northern  Illinois 
they  came  unexpectedly  upon  some  of  Burton's 
professional  friends;  meeting  in  a  locality  so  far  from 
home,  they  all  found  topics  for  conversation.  One 
of  these  friends- — a  gentleman  named  Hendricks — 
was  organizing  a  stock  company  to  remain  in  this 
place — a  smart  mining  town — for  the  balance  of  the 
winter.  Our  little  party  had  so  sickened  of  their 
wanderings  in  such  inclement  weather  that,  when 
Hendricks  proposed  they  should  all  remain  with 
him  as  salaried  members  of  his  company,  they  re- 
ceived the  proposition  favorably.  Crissy  was  in  her 
heart  the  most  pleased  of  all  by  this  change ;  she 
was  heartily  weary  of  the  nomadic  life  they  were 
leading,  it  had  curtailed  her  opportunities  for  study, 
beside  the  many  hardships  and  exposures  con- 
nected with  it. 

It  soon  transpired  that  Mr.  Hendricks  was  a  man 
who  expected  the  full  worth  of  his  money;  the  peo- 
ple he  employed  certainly  worked  very  hard  for 
what  they  received;  he  had  the  name  —  a  well-de- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  45 

served  one — of  being  a  man  of  his  word,  whatever 
he  agreed  to  pay  or  do  was  performed  to  the  letter, 
he  in  turn  exacted  the  same  treatment  from  others. 
This  reputation  enabled  him  to  secure  good  talent 
wherever  he  went.  In  those  times,  so  precarious 
in  the  show  business,  a  manager  with  such  a  reputa- 
tion as  his  was  an  anomaly.  In  order  to  meet  every 
expenditure  he  contracted  he  worked  hard,  look- 
ing for  his  employe's  to  do  the  same ;  he  was  stage 
manager  and  proprietor,  also  playing  heavy  busi- 
ness, his  doing  the  latter  was  a  vanity  as  well  as  an 
economy.  He  was  totally  unfitted  in  voice  or  figure 
for  the  part  he  played,  his  form  was  after  the  pat- 
tern generally  denominated  "squat,"  his  hair  and 
beard  of  a  fiery  redness,  his  eyes  small  and  features 
heavy.  As  Macbeth,  Hamlet  and  kindred  characters 
he  seemed  so  utterly  absurd  that  Crissy  wondered 
how  he  could  have  the  courage  to  attempt  them. 
In  his  capacity  as  stage  manager  he  was  extremely 
severe,  he  made  Crissy  perfectly  aware  of  her  own 
ignorance ;  after  two  weeks  under  his  direction  she 
realized  what  a  tyro  she  was ;  she  discovered  that 
her  preconceived  notions  of  acting  as  an  art  must 
have  been  mistaken  ;  her  fancy  that  people  should 
act  naturally  was  entirely  wrong,  that  to  laugh,  cry, 
declaim,  walk  or  faint  upon  the  stage,  must  be  done 
in  a  manner  never  attempted  by  people  in  real  life  ; 
then,  too,  her  voice  was  weak,  her  figure  too  petite, 
her  understanding  of  stage  business  very  limited. 
On  the  whole,  Mr.  Hendricks  played  a  successful 


46  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

season  through,  the  sagacity  and  honesty  which 
years  after  raised  him  to  an  elevated  position  among 
his  compeers  stood  him  well  through  these  troublous 
times,  enabling  him  to  make  bread,  butter,  and  some- 
thing more  where  many  other  men  would  have  failed. 

Despite  her  disappointments  and  failures,  these 
proved  pleasant  weeks  to  Crissy ;  her  time  was  filled 
by  occupations  of  such  regularity,  what  with  rehear- 
sals in  the  forenoon,  the  mending  of  wardrobe  and 
packing  champagne  baskets  in  the  afternoon,  the 
playing  at  night,  and  no  matter  how  weary  —  the 
conning  over  her  lines  for  next  rehearsal  just  before 
she  retired  for  the  night — her  time  was  completely 
filled.  Then,  too,  it  was  agreeable  to  know  that 
when  the  pangs  of  hunger  recurred  with  that  annoy- 
ing regularity  which  is  their  characteristic,  there 
would  be  something  to  assuage  them  ;  frequent  suf- 
fering from  hunger  had  been  a  concomitant  of  their 
traveling  experiences. 

Crissy's  mind  being  after  the  true  feminine  pat- 
tern, "  took  notes"  continually;  she  found  the  per- 
sons she  met  who  seemed  most  successful  in  dra- 
matic art  —  most  thoroughly  qualified  for  it  —  had 
been  literally  "born"  into  it;  their  parents  —  in 
some  cases  even  grandparents  —  having  been  in  the 
profession  all  their  lives;  of  course  she  saw  a  few 
brilliant  exceptions  to  this  rule,  but  very  few.  Mr. 
Hendricks'  wife,  a  young  woman  with  a  beautiful 
face  and  figure,  was  the  daughter  of  an  actress  — 
now  dead  — who  had  been  celebrated  in  her  day. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  47 

Mrs.  Hendricks  was  attracted  by  Crissy's  youth 
and  unsophisticated  manners ;  she  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  girl,  giving  her  sketches  of 
her  own  early  history.  From  these  Crissy  learned 
that  this  lady  began  her  professional  career  at  the 
tender  age  of  six  months,  being  frequently  carried 
upon  the  stage  in  cases  where  a  real  live  baby  was 
indispensable ;  from  the  time  she  could  walk  and 
talk  she  appeared  in  children's  parts,  the  stage  had 
really  been  her  study  from  infancy.  At  the  end  of 
the  winter  engagement  Crissy  said  good-bye  to 
this  attractive  little  lady;  she  never  met  her  again, 
but  heard  of  her  many  years  afterward  as  a  talented 
and  successful  writer  of  plays.  Crissy  thought 
that  people  like  George  and  herself,  joining  the 
great  caravan  of  dramatic  art,  seemed  like  the 
hangers-on  following  some  big  army, — the  army 
trained  and  equipped  for  fighting,  did  all  the  work, 
whilst  the  rabble  rushed  in  to  share  the  spoils; 
more  and  more  the  conviction  was  forced  upon  her 
of  her  disqualification  for  this  sort  of  employment. 
Then,  too,  the  women  who  proved  successful  at  this 
had  to  have  what  might  be  called,  "  a  choice  assort- 
ment of  genius;"  they  had  to  do  almost  as  much 
acting  off  the  stage  as  on  it, — they  must  flatter, 
wheedle  and  flirt.  To  Crissy's  ingenuous  disposi- 
tion all  this  was  horrible,  particularly  the  latter; 
but  even  Mrs.  Burton — who,  in  Crissy's  estima- 
tion, stood  nearly  as  high  as  the  dear  mother  at 
home — often  resorted  to  these  expedients  to 


48  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

smooth  the  hard  path  she  trod.  Her  smiles,  her 
gentle  words,  had  taken  the  edge  from  many 
a  landlord's  righteous  wrath,  had  gained  the 
good  will  of  many  an  impressible  newspaper  man. 
They  didn't  call  them  reporters  those  days.  Flirta- 
tion, this  lady  explained  to  Crissy,  was  the  harm- 
less but  glittering  little  sword  with  which  she  cut 
her  way  to  favors  and  leniency;  undoubtedly  this 
was  the  case,  but  Crissy  didn't  like  it,  feeling  that 
if  this  was  a  portion  of  the  training  for  public  life 
she'd  sooner  be  out  of  it.  The  young  girl  was 
heartily  sorry  when  the  time  came  for  the  company 
to  break  up.  They  were  all  good  people  —  most 
of  them  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  she  had  grown 
to  look  with  pleasure  to  the  meetings  at  rehearsal, 
the  short  conversations  at  the  wings  —  in  the  com- 
panies of  those  times  they  had  not  the  strict  disci- 
pline which  now  enforces  silence  behind  the  scenes. 
It  was  almost  equal  to  leaving  home  a  second  time 
when  she  bade  these  kind  souls  good-bye.  They 
started  once  more  under  cheerful  auspices.  Burton 
had  behaved  very  well;  their  joint  earnings  had 
paid  the  living  expenses  and  left  them  a  handsome 
surplus  to  make  their  way  with;  the  faithful  George 
accompanied  them,  saying  that  it  had  been  the 
dream  of  his  life  to  see  the  Mississippi;  he  said  to 
Crissy,  confidentially,  that,  "  next  to  Chicago,"  he 
reckoned  the  "  Father  of  Waters  "  was  the  finest 
sight  in  the  United  States  !  Hearing  so  much  of 
this  great  stream,  the  girl  was  impatient  to  see  it. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  49 

When  they  reached  Burlington  at  sunrise  one  morn- 
ing they  had  their  first  look  at  it.  Crissy  was  dis- 
appointed. It  wasn't  half  so  fine  as  she  expected. 
"  Oh  !  "  said  George,  "  you  can't  tell  by  this;  this 
is  only  a  little  patch  of  it  !  "  They  went  down 
the  river  about  thirty-five  or  forty  miles  to  a  flour- 
ishing town  on  the  Iowa  shore.  Burton  had  heard 
that  this  town  contained  a  nice  little  theatre  and 
amusement-loving  population.  As  they  progressed 
down  river  Crissy  confessed  that  she  had  been  mis- 
taken in  her  first  impression,  for  at  their  final  des- 
tination the  river  was  grand  and  beautiful.  Here, 
then,  was  to  be  their  stopping  place  for  a  time.  It 
was  the  month  of  May;  the  delicate  verdure  of  the 
early  season  beautified  the  wooded  shores  on  the 
river;  the  line  of  beach  glistened  with  white  peb- 
bles and  bits  of  sparkling  shell;  along  some  por- 
tions of  the  shore  great  trees  were  standing,  as 
one  might  say,  knee-deep  in  the  water,  for  it  was 
the  time  of  Spring  freshets.  Life  and  activity  blew 
in  the  fresh  winds  about  them  as  mother  earth  sent 
forth  her  call  to  wake  the  sleeping  flowers.  Crissy 
shared  Leoline's  delight  in  the  panorama  of  gor- 
geous colors  unrolled  before  them  ;  hand  in  hand 
they  wandered  along  the  river  bank  to  gaze  on 
everything  with  unsurfeited  pleasure.  No  whisper 
of  misfortune,  crime  and  death  was  in  the  balmy 
breeze,  no  hint  of  wretchedness  to  come;  the  future 
locked  up  its  secrets  with  jealous  care,  as  the  little 
party  of  friends  went  on  to  meet  their  destiny. 


50  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Burton  began  his  operations  immediately.  He 
rented  the  theatre,  which  proved  even  better  than 
he  had  been  told.  He  got  a  few  good  profes- 
sionals together;  these,  with  Crissy,  George  and 
his  own  family,  made  an  excellent  stock  com- 
pany. Then  he  wrote  to  different  parties  to  make 
arrangements  for  "stars"  to  come  to  him  every 
week  or  so.  This  was  the  favorite  method  in  the 
middle  of  this  century  for  supplying  the  public 
with  variety.  It  was  pretty  hard  on  those  who 
"starred  "it;  in  every  place  an  entirely  different 
support  to  the  star,  often  the  support  was  indiffer- 
ent indeed. 

The  prospects  for  patronage  seemed  to  justify 
Burton  in  these  undertakings.  The  first  few  days 
in  this  town  they  put  up  at  the  best  house,  but 
Mrs.  Burton's  good  sense  soon  convinced  her  hus- 
band that  it  would  be  better  tc  be  careful  of  their 
means  and  go  to  a  private  boarding  house. 

They  opened  to  crowded  audiences,  though  their 
first  attraction  had  not  yet  joined  them.  George 
expressed  his  satisfaction  over  their  success  with 
his  usual  volubility.  He  reminded  them  of  what 
he  had  said  about  the  open-handed  generosity  of 
the  Westerners.  The  stars  came  along  with 
reasonable  punctuality.  During  these  weeks  Crissy 
came  into  personal  contact  with  some  of  the  most 
famous  dramatic  talent  of  the  day.  Charlotte 
Cushman  was  a  warm  personal  friend  of  Mrs. 
Burton's ;  she  engaged  to  play  with  them  some 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  5 1 

weeks  later  in  the  season,  but  by  reason  of  illness 
was  obliged  to  cancel  her  dates. 

Crissy  was  most  deeply  interested,  however,  in  a 
certain  young  woman  of  great  beauty  and  promise. 
This  lady  owned  a  voice  of  rare  sweetness  and 
power ;  crowds  flocked  to  listen  to  her  singing. 
The  way  in  which  she  rendered  Irish  melodies  was 
something  never  to  be  forgotten.  Her  acting  at 
that  time  was  decidedly  faulty.  This  was  from 
youth  and  inexperience,  as  she  could  not  have  been 
much  over  twenty  years  of  age.  Her  commanding 
presence  —  she  was  tall,  with  a  faultless  figure  — 
her  beautiful,  expressive  countenance,  overbal- 
anced these  deficiencies.  The  two  weeks  she  spent 
with  Burton's  company  was  a  season  of  continuous 
ovation  to  her  charms.  She  showed  a  decided 
partiality  for  Crissy's  society ;  she  said  that  Crissy 
made  her  think  of  a  wild  flower  placed  amidst  half 
faded,  fully  overgrown  exotics.  She  would  stand 
behind  the  scenes  with  her  beautiful  white  arms 
twined  around  Crissy's  little  figure,  listening  with 
pleasure  to  the  girl's  artless  talk.  Crissy  in  turn 
was  attracted  by  this  superabundance  of  beautiful 
animal  life,  the  nightingale  voice,  the  mesmeric 
kindness  of  the  lovely  woman.  Ten  years  later 
she  learned  that  this  living  embodiment  of  grace 
and  genius  died  a  raving  maniac  in  one  of  the 
asylums  of  her  native  state. 

The  late  summer  was  upon  them,  and  business 
getting   very   slack.     At    that    hot   season  of   the 


52  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

year  most  people  who  could  manage  it  spent  a  few 
weeks  farther  north;  the  lively  town  was  compara- 
tively empty  now,  but  a  greater  trouble  than  the 
slackening  business  came  to  them.  Burton  who  had 
for  a  little  time  been  "tippling  "  went  on  one  of  his 
wildest  sprees.  He  neglected  things  entirely,  defy- 
ing control  of  any  sort.  George  essayed  reason  with 
him,  even  pleadings,  but  uselessly.  The  demon 
drink,  whose  victims,  once  millions,  can  now 
scarcely  be  counted — they  are  too  numerous  for 
that — held  sole  sway  over  an  intellect,  which,  had 
it  not  been  for  this  vile  habit,  would  have  made  its 
possessor  a  "light  in  the  land." 

The  lease  of  the  little  theatre  had  to  be  closed 
prematurely,  with  the  lessees  something  in  arrear ; 
worse  yet,  they  found  a  board  bill  increasing  on 
them  ;  they  knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  George 
searched  the  town  for  work  of  some  kind,  no  mat- 
ter what ;  to  earn  their  bread  he  would  do  anything 
within  his  power.  Just  as  things  had  reached  the 
darkest  point  Burton  regained  his  senses  again,  to 
find  his  family  reduced  to  a  shocking  predicament 
by  his  folly.  For  a  few  days  succeeding  Burton 
was  very  ill,  as  men  generally  are  after  excesses. 

The  first  day  that,  pale  and  shaking,  he  crept 
from  his  bed  and  regained  his  feet  once  more, 
George  rushed  in  excitedly;  he  had  been  absent  a 
couple  of  days  in  his  hunt  for  work.  "It's  all 
right,"  he  shouted,  "lots  of  work  to  be  had  outside 
of  this  in  the  harvest  fields ;  men  scarce ;  wages 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  53 

high  ;  you  and  I,"  this  to  Burton,  "will  go  to  work 
at  once  and  save  the  others  from  starvation."  The 
kind-hearted  fellow  danced  around  for  joy.  The 
landlady,  who  was  a  widow,  pushed  a  fat,  puckered 
and  sour  face  in  the  doorway,  and  hearing  what 
was  going  on,  reminded  them  of  their  indebted- 
ness to  her. 

"  Now,  my  good  woman,"  said  George,  persuas- 
ively, "what  we  already  owe  we  haven't  a  cent  to 
pay,  but  we'll  go  to  work  at  once  and  pay  for 
these  from  this  time,"  pointing  to  Mrs.  Burton  and 
the  girls.  "  We  will  keep  you  paid  for  their  board 
right  along ;  just  as  soon  as  we  get  on  our  feet 
again  we'll  pay  you  what  is  due." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  with  flashing  eyes, 
then  making  a  hasty  stride  to  the  middle  of  the 
room  said,  "No  you  don't,  mister!  you'll  not  cheat 
me  out  of  my  board  bill  that  way;  you  think  you 
can  skip  and  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  but  there," 
(pointing  toward  the  two  chambers  occupied  by 
Burton's  family)  "are  your  trunks  and  baskets. 
You'll  give  me  them  things  for  security;  I'll  keep 
'em  too  till  the  back  board  is  paid." 

"Impossible!"  cried  George,  aghast,  "why  we 
wouldn't  even  have  a  change  of  linen!  besides  they 
would  be  comparatively  worthless  to  you." 

"Look  here!"  said  Burton  to  the  woman,  "you 
would  keep  from  us  the  tools  with  which  we  work 
in  our  profession  ;  what  could  we  do  without  any 
wardrobe?  As  for  a  lot  of  muslin  trash,  covered 


54  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

with  gold  lace  and  spangles,  being  of  use  to  you, 
that's  sheer  nonsense!"  "Yes,"  answered  the 
woman  with  a  cunning  leer,  "  that's  true  enough, 
but  it's  of  great  use  to  you;  you1  II  need  it;  you'll 
raise  heaven  and  earth  to  get  it,  and  manage  to 
raise  what's  owing  me."  "  You  talk  like  a  fool!  " 
said  Burton,  impatiently.  "If  I  know  anything  of 
law  you  couldn't  take  such  security  anyhow,  as 
nothing  belonging  to  me  individually  is  there  ;  the 
man  is  the  party  held  responsible  in  these  cases." 
This  was  true,  for  it  happened  in  the  recent  con- 
fusion that  Burton's  wardrobe,  and  even  manu- 
scripts and  plays,  had  been  left  in  the  property 
room  of  the  theatre.  "  I  don't  care,"  said  the 
woman  doggedly,  "you  shall  go  yourselves;  I'll 
not  feed  you  a  day  or  an  hour  longer,  but  your 
belongings  don't  leave  this  house  if  I  know  my- 
self. You  calling  me  a  fool,  too!"  with  a  blazing 
glance  at  Burton  and  a  shrill  raising  of  her  voice  ; 
"you,  a  drunken  sot!  bringing  your  fine  lady  wife 
and  stuck-up  girls  to  steal  a  poor  widow's  bread!" 
George  trembled  with  rage  when  he  heard  this. 
Burton  said,  angrily,  "  Put  on  your  bonnet,  Lizzie, 
we'll  go  down  the  street  to  Lawyer  Haley's  office 
and  consult  him  at  once  on  this  matter ;  you  stay 
there"  looking  at  Crissy,  and  waving  his  hand 
toward  the  door  of  the  chambers  occupied  by 
them.  "  Come  with  us,  George,  and  help  unravel 
this  tangle."  Just  then  a  childish  voice  piped 
out,  "Let  me  go,  too,  papa!"  Leoline  had  been 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  55 

noticing  all  that  passed,  and  felt  afraid  of  this 
cross,  fat  woman.  "Come  along,  then,"  said  Bur- 
ton, hurriedly.  Crissy,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears, 
retired  to  the  chamber,  where  she  sat  upon  the 
broad  old-fashioned  windowsill  and  watched  the 
rest  walking  down  the  street  in  anxious  consulta- 
tion. What  would  her  mother  think  could  she 
look  in  upon  her  now?  This  episode  seemed  to 
Crissy  even  worse  than  the  horse-thief  one  ;  always 
this  way  just  as  things  began  to  look  bright  to 
them  —  this  awful  drunkenness  laid  all  waste.  Her 
melancholy  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the 
harsh  voice  of  the  landlady  at  her  door.  "  Miss 
Burton,"  she  said,  "  there's  some  one  at  the  front 
door  wanting  to  see  you  in  a  hurry."  Crissy 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  from  the  room  unsus- 
pectingly ;  she  opened  the  front  door,  no  one  was 
there  ;  she  heard  a  clicking  sound,  a  lock  turn- 
ing ;  she  looked  around — there  was  the  landlady 
locking  the  chamber  door  ;  she  placed  the  key  in 
her  pocket  and  said  with  a  disagreeable  smile,  "Now 
I've  fixed  you!"  "What  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Crissy,  bewildered.  "  I  mean,"  said  the  woman, 
"  that  I've  got  your  trunks  and  all  for  keeps  ;  pos- 
session is  nine  points  of  the  law  ;  I  rather  think 
I'll  hold  possession."  "Oh!"  cried  Crissy,  wring- 
ing her  hands  as  the  truth  flashed  on  her,  "  what 
shall  I  do!"  "Go,"  said  the  woman,  "and  tell 
that  precious  father  of  yours  that  I've  got  the  bet- 
ter of  him!"  She  had  no  more  than  spoken  when 


56  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Crissy  was  on  the  street,  bareheaded,  running  to 
the  lawyer's  office.  She  ran  in  and  told  her  story  ; 
they  all  regarded  her  for  a  few  minutes  in  silent 
consternation  ;  then  Burton,  being  in  reality  the  one 
most  to  blame,  upbraided  the  girl  sharply  ;  she 
wept.  "Never  mind,  Crissy!  "said  George,  "it's 
not  right  to  blame  you  ;  none  of  us  thought  to  tell 
you  to  be  sure  not  to  leave  that  room  on  any 
account."  "That's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  "  we 
should  have  explained  it  to  her  before  leaving  her 
alone  there."  The  lawyer  was  listening  atten- 
tively, but  with  a  contracted  brow."  "See  here!" 
he  said  to  them,  "  there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  If 
none  of  your  property,"  addressing  Burton,  "  is 
there,  we  must  take  an  affidavit  from  your  daugh- 
ter to  that  effect — I  don't  know  that  your  wife's 
testimony  could  count.  Come  here,"  continued 
the  lawyer,  looking  at  Crissy.  She  crossed  the 
room  and  stood  in  front  of  a  kind  of  railing  with 
a  desk  inside  of  it.  "Put  your  hand  —  the  left  one 
—  on  the  book."  Crissy,  not  knowing  in  the  least 
what  it  all  meant,  but  following  the  lawyer's  eyes, 
which  rested  on  a  small  black  book,  placed  her 
hand  upon  it  as  directed.  "  Now  raise  your  right 
hand."  Crissy  did  so.  "  That's  all  straight,"  con- 
tinued the  lawyer  briskly.  "Now  we'll  get  out  a 
search  warrant  at  once  and  replevin  the  goods,  if 
we  are  in  time.  You  may  be  sure  that  woman  is 
not  idle ;  I  know  her  well ;  she's  a  hard  one.  If 
whilst  we  are  fooling  here  she  gets  the  things  out 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  57 

of  the  house  and  hidden,  we  can't  help  ourselves." 
What  the  lawyer  apprehended  came  to  pass.  By 
the  time  the  search  warrant  was  out  and  an  officer 
procured  to  serve  it — law  in  some  cases  seems 
specially  adapted  to  frustrate  justice-  — the  land- 
lady had  removed  every  vestige  of  the  property 
belonging  to  the  poor  players.  A  thorough  inves- 
tigation of  every  corner  of  the  house  failed  to 
reveal  even  a  shred  of  it.  The  family  had  repaired 
with  the  officer  to  the  landlady's  house ;  they  all 
stood  in  the  parlor  anxiously  awaiting  the  result  of 
the  search.  When  informed  of  its  uselessness, 
despair  was  stamped  on  every  face ;  the  landlady 
contemplated  them  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

Crissy  was  desperate.  "  It  is  all  my  fault!"  she 
cried ;  then  running  to  the  landlady  she  caught 
that  person's  big,  hard,  right  hand  in  both  her 
own  and  said:  "Oh,  let  me  work  it  out;  take  me 
into  your  kitchen  to  wash  dishes,  scrub,  do  any- 
thing until  the  amount  is  paid  ;  only  let  them  have 
their  clothing." 

The  woman  gave  a  derisive  laugh.  "  You"  she 
answered,  "a  little  fine  lady  in  the  kitchen,  much 
good  you'd  be.  No,  no,  you'll  never  get  them  till 
you  pay,  so  be  off!" 

The  little  group  turned  into  the  street  without 
the  faintest  notion  where  they  would  go.  "  Let's 
go  to  the  theatre,"  said  George, — "the  offices  are 
open ;  if  not,  I'll  get  the  keys ;  we  can  talk  it  over 
there." 


58  'VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR. 

Having  nowhere  else  to  go  they  took  his 
advice ;  they  walked  sadly  enough  to  the  broad 
flight  of  stairs  leading  to  the  vestibule  which 
opened  the  way  to  the  disciples  of  Thespia.  On 
either  side,  at  the  head  of  these  stairs,  stood  the 
offices,  large,  high  ceilinged  rooms  with  windows 
facing  the  main  street.  They  sat  down  wondering 
where  and  how  they  could  live. 

"Tell  you  what,"  said  Burton,  "you  and  the 
girls  must  stay  right  here,  Lizzie ;  we'll  all  go  up 
into  the  property  room  and  look  around  there  for 
furniture ;  we  can  get  benches  and  cushions  to 
make  beds  for  you  and  the  children." 

"That's  grand! "  said  George  gayly,  "we  can 
find  lots  of  things  for  housekeeping ;  here's  a 
stove,  too,  to  cook  the  meals  on ; "  he  pointed  to 
one  of  those  long -shaped  stoves  adapted  to  the 
burning  of  extra  large  sticks  of  wood ;  near  it  was 
a  wood  box  with  a  few  sticks  left  in  it,  "lucky  it's 
warm  weather,  we'll  fix  things  up  firstrate  for  you  ; 
we  must  leave  here  the  first  peep  of  day  to-morrow 
morning  to  start  work  for  our  farmers." 

They  found  many  things  in  the  property  room 
for  their  wants ;  even  some  corn  meal  and  a  few 
potatoes.  It  happened  in  a  play  recently  per- 
formed by  them  that  an  Irishman  — by  one  of 
those  remarkable  vicissitudes  of  fortune  common 
on  the  stage  —  became  a  Rajah  somewhere  in 
India,  and  when  asked  what  he  would  have  for 
dinner  he  demanded  "praties,"  and  the  real  article 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  59 

had  to  be  produced  to  satisfy  him.  They  managed 
quite  a  supper  for  all  by  making  some  corn  meal 
mush  and  boiling  the  "praties."  With  the  last 
small  coin  he  owned,  George  purchased  a  loaf  of 
bread  and  some  salt.  The  poor  things  had  quite 
a  pleasant  meal  set  out  in  the  dishes  with  which 
Claude  Melnotte's  mother  had  her  simple  supper 
table  laid  when  she  was  expecting  that  hero  home. 
Leoline  enjoyed  the  novelty  when  her  mother 
tucked  her  into  the  improvised  bed  formed  of 
theatre  benches  and  crimson  cushions ;  she  said  it 
was  ever  so  much  nicer  than  living  with  that  cross 
woman. 

The  next  morning,  as  day  was  breaking,  Crissy 
woke  from  slumbers  which  had  been  sound  despite 
her  strange  surroundings  ;  she  remembered  at  once 
that  the  men  would  be  starting  for  their  new  occu- 
pation. She  dressed  rapidly  and  noiselessly,  not 
to  disturb  the  sleep  of  the  weary  woman  and  child. 
Stealing  softly  from  the  room  she  endeavored,  from 
the  scraps  of  the  evening's  supper,  to  prepare  a 
meal.  The  corn  meal  mush  slightly  warmed  over, 
with  a  few  cold  potatoes,  made  an  indifferent 
repast,  but  George,  gay  as  a  lark,  assisted  Crissy 
with  the  breakfast,  giving  at  the  same  time  a 
description  of  how  he  and  Burton  had  slept  in  the 
auditorium  of  the  theatre,  and  how,  upon  the 
stage  lighted  by  the  moon  shining  through  an 
open  doorway  in  the  rear,  they  saw  the  rats  come 
out  to  give  a  very  private  and  select  performance. 


60  VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR. 

"I  assure  you,"  he  said,  "that  they  made  quite  a 
large  company ;  if  I  had  not  been  so  sleepy  I 
should  have  enjoyed  watching  them  immensely." 

The  men  soon  departed,  but  not  before  Burton 
had  tip -toed  into  the  room  where  his  wife  and 
child  lay  sleeping,  there,  rinding  his  wife  awake, 
he  kissed  her  tenderly  and  bade  her  be  of  good 
cheer,  telling  her  that  as  soon  as  they  could  earn 
and  get  some  money  paid  them,  he  would  bring  it 
with  all  speed  to  her.  Then  with  moistened  eye- 
lids he  strode  rapidly  away.  This  man,  when 
sober,  was  the  gentlest,  kindest  soul  who  ever 
breathed ;  this  sweetness  of  nature,  which  showed 
so  strongly  in  his  periods  of  sobriety,  was  the 
invisible  chain  which  held  the  patient  woman  true 
to  him  through  shame  and  starvation  in  the  terrible 
years  of  their  wedded  life. 

George  gave  Crissy  a  friendly  good-bye  shake 
of  the  hand,  looking  meantime  into  her  eyes  a 
very  long  and  earnest  look  which  the  young  girl 
scarcely  heeded,  certainly  did  not  understand. 

Shortly  after  the  departure  of  Burton  and 
George,  Mrs.  Burton  joined  Crissy  in  the  room 
where  they  had  breakfasted ;  the  child  was  still 
sleeping.  Upon  the  table,  where  many  a  ticket 
seller  and  treasurer  had  beguiled  the  tedium  of  the 
evening  performances  by  games  of  cards,  lay  the 
remnants  of  the  breakfast,  consisting  of  a  handful 
of  raw  corn  meal  and  the  "heel"  of  the  loaf  of 
bread  ;  the  bread  would  be  about  two  slices.  The 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  61 

woman  and  girl  looked  each  other  squarely  in  the 
eyes ;  from  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  looked  the  same 
thought ;  that  thought  was  the  child!  "  Give  her 
a  part  of  the  bread  for  her  breakfast,"  said  Crissy, 
"the  rest  will  do  for  dinner  time,  when  she  hungers 
again."  Crissy  looked  at  Mrs.  Burton  for  a 
suggestion.  Mrs.  Burton  sat  down  with  her  hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  thinking  deeply  ;  Crissy  regarded 
her  with  silent  attention.  People  in  sorrow  and 
perplexity  do  very  little  talking ;  anticipation  and 
happiness  are  always  loquacious. 

After  what  appeared  to  Crissy  a  very  long  time 
Mrs.  Burton  said,  in  a  voice  which  had  a  tremor  in 
it,  "There  is  nothing  I  can  do  just  now;  the 
burden  must  fall  on  you;  I  am  so  ill  and  weak  this 
morning  that  it  is  hard  to  walk  even  a  few  steps, 
yet  something  must  be  done,  or  we  will  starve 
before  help  comes ;  to  beg  is  terrible  !  but  it  can- 
not be  a  shame  to  beg  for  work;  you  are  so  young 
and  helpless  looking  that  they  will  be  more  inclined 
to  assist  you  then  they  would  me ;  if  we  could  get 
some  sewing  to  do,  we  could,  between  the  two  of 
us,  at  least  earn  our  bread  until  the  men  get 
back." 

"I  will  do  it, "said  Crissy,  sturdily;  "just  tell  me 
how  to  go  about  it;  let  me  start  at  once!" 

Mrs.  Burton  smiled  sadly  at  her  eagerness.  "It 
will  be  best,"  she  said,  "to  leave  the  business  por- 
tion of  the  town,  and,  walking  along  the  residence 
streets,  go  from  door  to  door,  asking  them  to  give 


62  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

you  work  to  do,  stating  to  them  plainly  and  truth- 
fully the  circumstances;  telling  them,  if  need  be, 
that  we  cannot  earn  our  bread  by  our  profession 
just  now,  as  our  wardrobes  have  been  taken  from 
us.  Tell  them  that  we  can  do  almost  any  kind  of 
hand  sewing,  that  we  will  be  very  thankful  to  get 
work." 

At  the  period  we  write  of,  the  sewing  machine 
was  a  comparatively  new  invention,  very  few  of 
them  being  in  general  use  in  the  Far  West. 

Crissy  was  all  anxiety  to  start  at  once ;  but  what 
should  she  put  on  her  head?  The  broad  brimmed 
hat  she  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  was  locked  up 
with  all  the  rest  by  that  hateful  woman.  She  had 
to  don  the  matronly  little  bonnet  worn  by  Mrs. 
Burton.  This  was  of  course  more  respectable  than 
going  bareheaded,  but  was  useless  in  warding  off 
the  rays  of  a  burning  sun  from  her  face.  It  could 
not  be  helped ;  so  Crissy,  with  a  brave  assump- 
tion of  cheerfulness,  trudged  off. 

Crissy  having  had  no  experience  in  this  sort  of 
r61e,  started  out  with  a  stock  of  hope  in  her  active 
little  brain.  She  walked  quickly  up  the  main 
streets  to  those  outlying  ones  where  well-built 
houses,  surrounded  by  trees  and  gardens,  stood  in- 
vitingly. She  trembled  and  blushed  at  the  first 
door  where  she  made  her  humble  application.  A 
stylishly  dressed  young  female  opened  it.  She  re- 
garded Crissy  with  inquiring  eyes,  the  expression 
of  which  changed  to  strong  disfavor  when  she 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  63 

knew  the  nature  of  her  business.  She  said  with 
great  decision  that  they  did  not  require  to  give  out 
any  sewing,  as  they  had  reliable  and  respectable  per- 
sons employed  upon  it  in  the  house.  Crissy 
turned  away,  more  dismayed  by  the  tone  and  look 
than  the  blunt  refusal.  She  called  at  fully  thirty 
houses  or  more  during  the  blazing  forenoon  with 
the  same  discouraging  result.  Then,  being  quite 
worn  out  by  the  heat,  lack  of  food  and  drink,  she 
sat  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  to  cogitate.  Crissy, 
drawing  upon  the  memories  contained  in  her  life 
of  fourteen  years,  found  staring  her  in  the  face 
one  indisputable  fact, — this  fact  being  that  rum  was 
the  cause  of  all  the  misery  she  had  known  in  her 
own  experience,  as  well  as  that  of  those  around 
her. 

She  was  too  young  as  yet  to  reason  out  that  as 
every  sickness  in  nature  has  its  palliative  and  cura- 
tive medicine,  so  must  this  awful  vice  have  some- 
where in  the  wide  universe  something  to  counter- 
act it.  If  you  had  asked  her,  at  that  immature 
age,  what  she  would  do  about  it,  had  she  the 
power,  she  would  have  answered  instantly,  "Abol- 
ish every  form  of  intoxicating  fluid;  put  it  where 
men  can't  get  it;  that  is  the  only  cure."  Then 
when  you  told  her,  gravely,  that  it  was  an  impossi- 
bility, because  it  would  destroy  the  "  revenues  of 
her  country,"  how  astonished  she  would  have  been. 
How  much  more  astonished  when  you  supplement- 
ed this  statement  on  "revenue"  with  the  old  famil- 


64  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

iar  twaddle  about  the  redeeming  power  of  "  home 
influence."  Think  of  Crissy  swallowing  such  pap 
as  that  after  her  own  experiences. 

This  idea  of  "home  influence,"  as  a  saviour 
from  the  liquor  habit,  has  been  refuted  over  and 
over  again.  How  many  thousands  of  true-hearted 
men  and  women  have  clung  to  this  faint  hope,  this 
very  straw,  only  to  see  those  they  loved  best  pass 
to  their  dishonored  graves  victims  to  the  last  of 
this  frightful  practice.  One  of  the  most  earnest 
men  of  our  age,  who  has  examined  this  subject 
thoroughly,  tells  us  that  "nine -tenths  of  our  pov- 
erty, squalor,  vice,  and  crime,  spring  from  this 
poisonous  tap-root."  Think  of  it, — nine -tenths; 
and  yet,  what  efforts  ha/e  we  made,  or  are  we 
making,  against  this  devastating  sin?  The  rum- 
shops  stand  in  close  array  about  us,  tempting  our 
poor  fallen  creatures  at  every  hand ;  we  try  by 
heavy  licenses  to  control  the  increasing  sale  of  in- 
toxicants. It  has  been  demonstrated  how  little 
that  course  avails. 

The  struggle  waged  against  intemperance  in 
our  times  has  many  pathetic  features.  When 
women,  rendered  desperate  by  their  increasing 
agonies,  rushed  upon  this  hydra-headed  monster, 
endeavoring  by  force  to  kill  it,  an  unthinking 
multitude  stood  by  and  laughed,  as  despairingly 
these  women  tore  open  the  hoards  of  the  rum-sel- 
lers and  threw  the  fiery  liquids  in  the  dust.  Such 
futile  attempts  may  have  possessed  a  certain  grotes- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  65 

queness,  but  they  are  dignified  as  the  expression 
of  a  righteous,  albeit  impotent,  wrath. 

Alcohol  is  the  torch  which  lights  treason  and 
anarchy  to  their  deadly  work.  With  that  removed, 
you  would  need  no  armed  detectives ;  no  troops. 
Reason,  unclouded  by  the  fumes  of  liquor,  would 
listen  to  reason.  If  the  labor  question  is  to  be  the 
great  question  of  the  day,  as  many  say  it  is,  it  will 
be  met  far  better  when  sobriety  is  the  rule  not  the 
exception.  Talk  of  agitators!  there  is  no  agitator 
whose  influence  can  equal  that  of  whisky. 

Crissy  found  that  chewing  the  bitter  cud  of 
reflection  was  not  likely  to  help  her  toward  getting 
food ;  she  rose  wearily,  very  dejectedly  now,  to 
essay  the  task  again.  At  the  different  houses  she 
had  plaintively  stated  her  case  thus :  She  wanted 
work ;  she  needed  work  because  those  she  loved 
were  suffering  for  food.  She  had  not  told  the  story 
of  how  they  happened  to  be  in  this  predicament, 
for  this  would  involve  the  mention  of  their  pro- 
fession. Crissy  felt  some  lately-born  instinct  within 
her  which  kept  her  from  telling  all  unless  posi- 
tively necessary.  The  day  was  advancing ;  by  this 
time  Leoline  would  have  eaten  the  last  mouthful 
of  that  precious  piece  of  bread, — where  would  the 
next  come  from?  Strengthened  by  this  anxious 
thought,  Crissy  went  on. 

At  the  first  door  a  middle-aged  matron  appeared ; 
a  number  of  giggling  young  women,  eager  to  hear 
what  was  going  on,  pressed  behind  her.  Crissy 


66  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

began  to  make  her  application  for  work  and  state 
her  case ;  the  middle-aged  lady  listened  with 
interest.  Crissy,  feeling  encouraged  thereby,  stated 
the  whole  case.  She  was  painfully  conscious  that 
the  faces  in  the  rear  began  to  look  scandalized  ; 
the  middle-aged  hardened  visibly,  and  said  it  was 
a  very  peculiar  story;  she  might  call  at  the  theatre 
next  day,  look  into  it  and  see  what  she  could  do. 
As  the  door  was  closing  Crissy  could  hear  one  of 
the  young  women  say  scornfully,  "That  play-acting 
girl!"  Crissy  tried  not  to  cry,  but  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  hot  cheeks.  She  thought,  what  am  I 
now?  a  mere  vagrant!  a  vagabond  on  the  face  of 
the  earth!  Ah,  what  would  her  mother  think  of  this, 
could  she  see  her  now?  Nothing  could  have  in- 
duced her  to  go  on  after  this  rebuff  save  the 
thought  of  the  feeble  woman  and  little  child ;  she 
felt  that  to  lie  down  in  a  remote  corner  of  some 
unnoticed  place  and  starve  to  death  would  be 
easier  than  to  beg  work  from  these  hard-hearted 
ones.  She  had  sometimes  before  this  suffered 
hunger  in  her  own  home,  but  she  had  not  been 
exposed  to  sneers  or  insults.  Go  on  she  must ; 
her  story  in  most  cases  met  an  incredulity  masked 
by  a  veil  of  cold  politeness ;  in  other  cases  with 
open  insult,  particularly  when  she  spoke  to  men 
more  particularly  when  these  were  old  men. 

If  Crissy  had  realized  the  import  of  the  glances 
these  old  men  cast  upon  her  she  would  have  thrown 
herself  into  the  river  sooner  than  run  the  gauntlet 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  67 

of  such  dreadful  insults!  Her  innocence  was  the 
thick  wall  which  stood  between  her  and  this 
knowledge.  The  stage  was  unjustly  regarded  as  a 
degrading  institution.  At  that  time  there  was 
scarcely  a  pulpit  in  the  land  which  did  not  thunder 
forth  denunciations  against  it ;  respectability  pulled 
its  cloak  very  closely  around  it  when  anything 
connected  with  the  drop  curtain  and  footlights 
passed  near.  We  think  a  more  liberal,  certainly  a 
more  Christian  spirit,  prevails  now. 

The  blazing  sun,  which  had  nearly  blistered 
poor  Crissy's  face,  was  traveling  quickly  to  its  rest. 
She  had  accomplished  almost  nothing.  At  her  last 
stopping  place  a  sallow-faced  young  matron,  with 
an  infant  in  her  arms,  had  listened  rather  kindly 
to  her.  After  a  long  spell  of  thinking,  this  matron 
had  placed  her  baby  in  its  crib  and  brought  to 
Crissy  a  piece  of  white  work  she  would  like  done; 
also  a  tiny  package  containing  perhaps  a  quarter 
pound  of  tea.  By  the  way,  this  work  was  a  night 
gown,  woman's  size,  to  be  embroidered  around  the 
collar,  sleeves,  and  down  the  front  after  being 
made.  Some  days  later  the  matron  paid  Mrs. 
Burton  the  munificent  sum  of  fifty  cents  for  this 
piece  of  work — and  the  tea  aforesaid. 

Crissy  accepted  this  help  very  gratefully,  though 
she  felt  some  doubts  as  to  the  tea  satisfying  those 
places  which  needed  filling,  she  was  too  afraid  of 
degenerating  into  utter  beggary  by  saying  how 
much  sooner  she  would  have  bread  than  tea.  Then 


68  VAGABOND  FOR  A   Y£AR. 

she  trudged  forth  once  more ;  as  she  looked  about 
her,  she  thought  very  sadly  that  the  town  and 
river  never  seemed  so  pretty  before,  the  town  with 
its  white  streets.  Upon  these  nicely  graded  streets 
a  very  white  stone  finely  crushed  was  spread, 
making  a  beautiful  contrast  to  the  green  of  trees 
and  lawns,  which  sloped  gently  down  to  the  levee, 
and  beyond  this  lay  the  broad  river,  blue  and 
silent,  holding  in  its  translucent  depths  the 
mirrored  shores. 

Crissy  trembled  with  fatigue  and  faintness  as 
she  gazed.  "Ah!"  she  groaned  wearily,  "how 
can  things  be  so  lovely  in  this  world  of  sin  and 
trouble!"  She  made  her  way  to  the  main  streets  ; 
her  thought  was  always  no  food,  no  food.  How 
could  she  go  to  those  waiting  ones  without  it? 
As  she  was  passing  a  large  church  its  broad  stone 
steps  invited  her  wearied  frame  to  take  a  few 
moments  rest.  She  sat  down  despondently ;  she 
was  too  tired  to  even  think.  How,  after  a  melan- 
choly interval,  the  idea  came  to  her,  she  never 
quite  knew,  perhaps  it  was  from  a  longing  for  her 
mother.  She  remembered  in  a  hazy,  dim  way, 
that  no  one  had  called  at  the  postoffice  lately. 
She  had  failed  to  procure  food,  perhaps  she  could 
get  letters. 

She  dragged  her  tired  limbs  to  the  postoffice. 
A  supercilious  young  man  at  the  little  window 
looked  at  her  impudently,  and  hardly  troubling 
himself  to  search,  said  carelessly  that  there  was 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  69 

nothing.  Crissy  turned  away  silently ;  there  was 
such  a  plaintive  limpness  in  her  young  figure,  such 
wretchedness  in  her  burned,  tear-stained  face,  that 
the  young  man,  after  another  look  at  her,  seemed 
to  receive  a  nervous  shock,  which  caused  him  to 
search  again,  with  the  result  that  he  ran  out,  just 
as  she  stepped  from  the  door,  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand.  Crissy  looked  and  saw  joyfully  that  it  was 
her  mother's  handwriting  ;  she  had  not  heard  from 
her  mother  for  a  number  of  weeks.  She  sat  down 
on  a  step  in  the  street;  then,  heedless  of  inquisitive 
glances,  opened  it.  Something  dark  was  carefully 
folded  into  the  letter.  Crissy  drew  it  out ; — bank 
bills!  Here  then  was  food  for  the  starving  ones! 
Crissy  was  astonished  beyond  measure.  Why 
should  her  mother  think  of  sending  her  money? 
She  would  read  later  on  and  see ;  but  now — to  the 
nearest  baker's.  With  help  in  her  very  hands 
Crissy's  despair  was  gone,  and  her  healthy  young 
appetite  revived. 

It  did  not  take  her  long  to  obtain  enough  to  make 
a  hearty  supper  for  three.  Just  as  the  sun  was 
sinking  she  turned  her  steps,  quickened  now  by 
the  joy  she  was  bringing,  up  the  stairs  of  the  thea- 
tre. A  childish  voice  was  calling  "  Crissy  "  the 
minute  she  had  mounted  the  first  three  stairs. 
"Dear,  dear  Crissy!"  cried  the  child,  excitedly, 
"  have  you  come  at  last  ?  The  day  was  so  dull 
without  you  ;  poor  mamma  was  so  sick,  and  I  am 
so  awfully  hungry,  only  I  didn't  tell  mamma  that  /" 


7°  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Crissy  laughed,  showing  her  the  bundles.  They 
entered  the  room  together.  Mrs.  Burton  sat  in  one 
of  the  big  office  chairs  quite  colorless  from  her 
long  fasting.  It  was  no  wonder;  she  had  not 
tasted  food  for  twenty-four  hours.  Crissy  was  too 
wise  to  do  any  talking  till,  with  Leoline's  assist- 
ance, the  supper  was  spread  and  a  strong  cup  of 
tea  made  from  that  precious  little  packet.  Then  she 
and  Leoline  went  to  the  nearest  milkman  for  a  few 
pennies'  worth  of  milk,  and  the  feast  was  ready. 
How  gladly  the  child,  how  thankfully  the  woman 
and  girl,  partook  of  this  simple  repast  we  need  not 
tell ;  very  little  was  said,  but  sometimes  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton would  look  across  the  small  table  at  Crissy  with 
glistening  and  grateful  eyes. 

When  the  meal  was  finished  Leoline  neatly 
cleared  away  the  remnants  and  washed  the  dishes, 
declaring  that  Crissy  was  too  "awfully  tired"  to  do 
anything  but  rest.  Then  Crissy  read  her  letter,  where 
the  meaning  of  the  bank  bills  was  fully  explained. 
By  the  time  she  received  that  letter  her  father, 
mother,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  would  be  living  in 
Chicago.  The  father  had  been  offered  a  lucrative 
position  in  the  growing  metropolis.  His  wife 
urged  him  to  accept  it,  as  it  would  take  them  nearer 
to  that  West  where  Crissy  was.  The  mother,  after 
four  pages  of  home  details  so  interesting  to  a  young 
girl,  added  a  postscript,  in  which  she  said  that  in 
a  few  months  more  it  would  be  a  year  since  Crissy 
left  home ;  that  they  all  yearned  to  see  her  ;  that 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  ^  l 

the  enclosed  bank  bills  were  to  pay  Crissy's  expenses 
home  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Burton  thought  it  would  be 
a  convenient  time  to  let  her  come  and  visit  for  a 
few  weeks.  Furthermore,  that  the  father  was  behav- 
ing admirably  just  now,  and  they  all  felt  very 
happy.  Crissy  held  the  letter  in  her  hand  with  a 
conflict  of  feelings.  So  strange  that  her  mother 
should  think  of  sending  her  money  for  this  pur- 
pose. Could  her  mother  have  any  suspicion  of  the 
trials  surrounding  her  ?  She  had  been  so  careful 
never  to  hint  a  word  concerning  them. 

Oh !  Crissy  !  Crissy !  you  did  not  know  a 
mother's  love,  her  intuitions.  Your  studied  descrip- 
tions of  your  journeyings,  your  experiences,  couldn't 
deceive  that  tender,  watchful  intelligence.  She 
knew  that  something  must  be  wrong,  and  tried  with 
a  woman's  delicate  care  to  get  at  the  root  of  it 
without  seeming  to  question.  Crissy  didn't  puzzle 
over  it  very  long, —  it  was  delightful  anyhow  that 
her  own  dear  mother  had  been  that  ministering 
angel  who  lifted  her  from  the  depths. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  when  Crissy  first 
received  this  unhoped  assistance  she  did  not 
fall  on  her  knees  immediately  in  thankfulness 
to  God.  It  must  be  remembered  that  she  was  very 
hungry.  It  is  likely  that  when  the  children  of 
Israel  found  the  manna  they  fell  to  eating  first  and 
praising  afterwards. 

When  Leoline  was  sound  asleep  the  woman  and 
girl  sat  together  as  Crissy,  in  low  tones,  recounted 


72  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

the  incidents  of  the  day.  To  Crissy,  looking  back 
upon  it,  it  appeared  the  longest  day  she  could  ever 
remember,  so  much  of  varied  feeling  was  crowded 
into  it.  Mrs.  Burton  listened  with  compressed  lips 
and  flashing  eyes  as  the  girl  frankly  told  her  the 
many  insulting  remarks  addressed  to  her  because 
of  her  profession. 

"  It  is  so  ! "  said  the  older  woman,  sadly  ; 
"  every  ruffian  feels  himself  licensed  to  insult  an 
actress,  no  matter  how  good  she  may  be ;  how  care- 
ful in  her  actions,  she  is  made  the  target  of  low 
innuendo.  From  the  minister  of  God  down  to  the 
layman  she  is  held  up  as  an  object  of  derision;  — 
it  is  a  shameful  fact."  She  sighed  as  she  spoke. 
The  next  morning,  at  five  o'clock,  when  the  child 
lay  wrapped  in  slumber,  the  two  women  sat  sewing 
on  the  long  white  seams  of  the  nightgown.  Mrs. 
Burton  said,  with  justice,  that  Crissy's  mother,  hav- 
ing sent  that  money  for  a  certain  purpose,  it  was 
their  duty  to  try  and  hold  it  for  that  purpose, 
replacing  as  soon  as  they  could  the  amount  taken 
from  it;  for  though  it  could  undoubtedly  be  consid- 
ered in  the  light  of  a  divine  providence,  they,  on 
their  parts,  must  not  take  too  full  advantage  of  that 
providence.  Crissy  coincided  with  this.  She  was 
far  too  active  in  mind  and  body  to  want  to  lean  too 
heavily  on  providence  or  anything  else. 

When  the  child,  awakening,  saw  the  women 
busily  employed,  nothing  would  do  but  she  must 
get  the  breakfast ;  so,  with  a  large  piece  of  bagging 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  73 

in  lieu  of  an  apron  tied  around  her,  she  went  about 
it  with  much  clatter  and  laughing.  Crissy,  how- 
ever, built  the  fire,  saying  that  was  too  much  for 
Leoline's  strength.  As  the  long  summer  day  was 
wearing  to  late  afternoon,  and  the  slanting  rays  of 
the  hot  sun  glanced  scorchingly  through  the  big 
uncurtained  windows  of  the  offices,  the  women 
rested  a  little  from  the  weary  sewing. 

At  this  period  came  a  verification  of  the  saying 
that  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.  Over 
from  a  dry-goods  store,  directly  across  the  street 
from  them,  stepped  a  kindly-faced  young  man  with 
a  large  bundle  in  his  arms.  He  tapped  gently  at 
the  office  door.  Crissy  admitted  him.  He  hoped 
he  was  not  guilty  of  an  intrusion,  but  he  under- 
stood that  they  wished  to  secure  some  sewing.  He 
had  some  netting  there  he  would  like  them  to  make 
up.  In  the  Mississippi  river  towns  they  frequently 
canopied  their  beds  with  fine  netting,  as  the  mos- 
quito of  that  famous  stream  is  renowned  for  the 
fierceness  of  its  sting.  He  gravely  unfolded  the 
work,  explaining  how  the  pieces,  already  carefully 
cut,  should  be  joined ;  then  he  named  the  sum  he 
was  willing  to  pay  for  it,  which  sum  appeared  to  the 
ladies  startling  in  its  liberality.  Crissy  listened  with 
the  ready  belief  of  youth ;  the  older  woman  compre- 
hended at  once  that  the  work  was  really  a  delicately 
veiled  gift.  When  the  youth  departed  little  Leoline 
ran  to  the  window  to  watch  him  as  he  crossed  the 
street,  meantime  pronouncing  him  "a  darling." 


74  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

In  a  few  minutes  came  another  tap  at  the  door. 
There  stood  a  little,  faded,  sunken-eyed  woman, 
who  looked  so  brown  and  shriveled  that  she  was 
exactly  like  an  overdry  bean  pod;  she  proceeded 
to  shake  each  of  them  warmly  by  the  hand  and  to 
tell  them,  in  a  feeble  voice,  with  a  strong  nasal 
twang  to  it,  that  she  was  proprietress  of  a  shirt 
manufactory  a  couple  of  doors  from  them ;  that 
she  understood  they  wanted  work  ;  that  she  ran  a 
sewing  machine.  She  said  this  with  a  tinge  of 
pride,  a  sewing  machine  was  quite  a  possession 
then,  when  they  were  high-priced  and  scarce, — 
that  she  could  give  them  plenty  of  fine  button- 
holes to  make  and  gussets  to  set. 

It  need  scarcely  be  told  that  they  accepted  her 
offer  very  gratefully.  As  soon  as  she  left  the 
woman  and  girl  looked  at  each  other  with  a  world  of 
meaning  in  the  look.  They  realized  that  Crissy's 
day  of  hopeless  applications,  her  wretched  trudg- 
ings  from  door  to  door,  had  brought  forth  fruit  at 
last ;  that  the  longed-for  work  should  come  from 
the  business  part  of  the  town,  from  people  at  their 
very  doors,  seemed  to  them  surprising. 

They  should  not  have  been  surprised.  We  never 
find  our  blessings,  any  more  than  our  sorrows,  in 
the  spots  where  we  look  for  them.  Short-sighted 
humanity  is  always  searching  in  the  wrong  places 
for  what  it  wants.  Thus  ended  the  second  day  of 
their  housekeeping  in  the  office  rooms  of  the 
theatre. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  75 

On  the  third  morning  Mrs.  Burton  laid  out  an 
organized  —  as  she  called  it — plan  of  work.  This 
was,  two  hours'  sewing  before  breakfast ;  then  Crissy 
and  Leoline  went  out  and  purchased  the  day's  pro- 
visions ;  then  breakfast,  then  work  again  until  one 
o'clock  ;  then  th'e  light  repast  which  served  for  din- 
ner ;  then  work  until  sundown.  As  they  sewed  the 
child  busied  herself  with  the  cares  of  their  very 
light  housekeeping;  she  often  amused  herself  inves- 
tigating every  portion  of  the  auditorium,  the  prop- 
erty-rooms, and  those  loft-like  places  where  the 
scene  painters  used  to  do  their  work.  Many  a  fan- 
tastic drama  did  the  child  dream  and  play  out  by 
herself  upon  the  forsaken  stage;  many  an  airy 
dance  she  executed  to  the  music  of  her  own  hum- 
ming voice. 

The  woman  and  girl  often  sat  at  the  back  of  the 
stage  as  the  child  played ;  they  sat  with  their  sew- 
ing at  a  door,  which,  opening  at  the  rear  of  the 
stage  and  third  story  of  the  building,  was  closed 
across  its  lower  part  by  wooden  bars  to  pre- 
vent any  one  from  falling  out,  for  this  door 
had  no  stairway  on  the  outside.  From  it  they 
looked  down  upon  the  broad  river  to  where 
the  other  shore,  a  mass  of  verdure,  gazed  at 
itself  in  the  rippling  water;  they  frequently  sat 
here  with  their  work  to  enjoy  the  refreshing  cool- 
ness of  what  breeze  happened  to  be  stirring,  for 
the  weather  was  intensely  warm.  Many  a  time  at 
sunset  the  girl  would  lean  against  the  bars  of  this 


7  6  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

door,  and  looking  pensively  across  the  water, 
almost  fancy  she  could  see  her  mother  —  a  grace- 
ful figure,  with  soft,  dark  eyes  and  blackly-falling 
hair  —  step  gently  over  the  watery  chasm  to  come 
to  her.  The  child  played  out  her  day  dreams  on 
the  empty  stage  ;  the  girl  brought  her's  out  in  the 
sunset  light  and  kept  her  courage  up  by  the  pleas- 
ing fancies  her  affections  evoked. 

The  days  wore  on  to  nearly  a  week  of  their 
strange  housekeeping,  yet  not  a  word  or  sign  from 
the  men  who  had  gone  to  the  harvest  fields  to  earn 
them  sustenance.  Mrs.  Burton  remarked  that  if 
they  had  been  content  on  their  parts  to  remain 
supinely  waiting  for  that  assistance,  they  .would 
have  had  a  long  wait  of  it ! 

In  the  meantime  they  received  ample  help  in 
the  way  of  employment.  For  a  wonder,  no  one 
appeared  to  remonstrate  with  them  on  the  forcible 
possession  they  had  taken  of  their  odd  lodgings; 
they  had  suffered  some  natural  forebodings  on  this 
score.  Perhaps  the  owners  of  the  property,  hearing 
of  their  forlorn  condition,  had  concluded  not  to 
interfere  with  them. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  as  they  sat  diligently 
sewing  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth  day,  "  I  hope 
we  will  soon  hear  something  of  Mr.  Burton  and 
George.  Now  that  we  have,  for  the  present  at 
least,  solved  the  enigma  of  how  to  earn  our  bread, 
I  begin  to  feel  some  anxiety  on  their  account." 

"  You    needn't,   mamma,"  said  Leoline,  confi- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  7  7 

dently;  "they  are  all  right;  it's  easy  for  a  man  to 
come  out  all  right."  Mrs.  Burton  smiled  at  the 
child's  implicit  faith  in  manhood. 

The  afternoon  of  that  day  brought  them  a  great 
surprise.  A  dray  stopped  in  front  of  the  theatre;  a 
stout  drayman  alighting  from  it,  began  carrying 
heavy  packages  up  the  stairs.  Mrs.  Burton  stepped 
into  the  corridor  in  surprise  to  see  what  it  meant ; 
the  man,  tipping  his  cap  to  her,  produced  a  card, 
upon  which  her  own  name  was  written  in  a  large, 
clear  hand,  underneath,  in  smaller  writing,  a  few 
lines  to  the  effect  that,  hearing  of  the  sad  necessi- 
ties of  herself  and  family,  some  parties  unknown 
took  the  liberty  of  sending  these  necessary  provi- 
sions to  them. 

The  man  carried  all  into  the  apartment  which 
served  as  kitchen  and  dining  room,  then  silently 
departed.  The  women  felt  quite  overcome  by  this 
unexpected  kindness.  Leoline  examined  the  pack- 
ages with  joy,  especially  when  she  came  to  a  very 
large  one  of  white  sugar.  "  We  are  in  no  danger 
of  starving  now"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Burton;  "proba- 
bly when  our  gentlemen  return  we  can  surprise 
them  with  our  abundance." 

They  never  found  out  who  the  kind  donors 
were.  It  is  possible  that  those  donors  had  a  pretty 
comfortable  feeling  about  the  region  of  their  hearts 
that  evening.  On  that  night,  after  the  sun  had 
been  in  bed  for  a  long  time,  the  woman,  girl  and 
child  sat  talking  together  by  the  white  moonlight 


7 8  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

streaming  in  through  the  large  windows.  The 
night  was  almost  too  warm  for  sleep,  even  to  them, 
tired  as  they  felt.  Suddenly  they  heard  heavy 
footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

"My  darling  papa,"  cried  the  child,  —  and  she 
was  out  of  the  door  in  an  instant.  She  had  recog- 
nized her  father's  steps. 

In  they  came,  the  child  joyously  holding  a 
hand  of  each;  the  men  looking  very  brown  indeed 
from  the  sun's  hot  kisses,  but  they  looked  well 
despite  their  laborious  and  unaccustomed  work. 
They  did  what  people  generally  do  when  excited 
and  happy.  They  all  tried  to  talk  at  once.  At 
last  Burton  smilingly  declared  that  one  at  a  time 
must  take  the  stand, —  he  himself  would  have  first 
say.  Then  he  recounted  how  they  tried  to  get  the 
farmer  to  pay  for  the  first  day's  work,  and  let  them 
take  the  money  to  their  folks,  solemnly  promising 
to  return  the  next  morning.  How  the  farmer 
wouldn't  "  hear  to  it,"  saying  that  he  had  a 
"  pesky  "  hard  time  to  get  any  hands  into  his  fields; 
that  it  was  one  thing  to  say  they'd  come  back, 
another  thing  to  do  it. 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  George,  "he  was  bound  to 
make  sure  of  us,  for  he  locked  us  into  our  bed 
room  every  night,  saying  he'd  be  "goll  durned  "  if 
he'd  trust  us  out  of  his  sight!" 

"To  make  a  long  story  short,"  continued  Bur- 
ton, "he  wouldn't  pay  us  a  cent  till  we'd  worked 
six  days  for  him.  'Tis  an  actual  fact  that  he  locked 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  79 

us  in  every  night.  I'm  quite  sure  that  he  never  ex- 
pects to  see  us  again.  If  we  hadn't  taken  to  our 
heels  and  run  for  it  the  length  of  several  fields 
right  after  supper  to-night,  we  wouldn't  be  here 
now." 

They  all  laughed  over  this  account,  which  is 
not  exaggerated,  for  help  was  very  scarce  indeed  ; 
the  work  of  the  farm  being  done  to  such  a  great 
extent  by  hand  in  those  days.  It  is  difficult  now 
to  realize  such  a  state  of  affairs. 

The  men  proudly  handed  over  their  earnings  to 
Mrs.  Burton.  George,  kind  simple  soul,  feeling  as 
much  pleased  to  have  earned  it  for  them,  as  if  they 
had  been  his  very  own.  When  she  represented  to 
him  that  they  had  no  right  to  it,  he  wouldn't  listen 
to  her.  He  said  it  was  the  result  of  his  toil  for  the 
woman  and  child, — and  that  she  must  say  no 
more. 

"There's  one  thing,"  said  George,  "though 
we  might  be  called  prisoners,  and  worked  from 
sun-up  till  sun-down,  we  feasted  like  lords  in  that 
farmhouse.  Talk  of  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and 
honey!  Tell  you  what,"  he  continued  unctuous- 
ly, "  I  wish  I  could  put  some  of  those  big  chunks 
of  honey  in  my  pocket  for  you,  Leo!  Here's  all  I 
could  bring!"  At  this  he  emptied  from  his 
pockets  a  lot  of  harvest  apples.  The  child 
received  them  with  delight. 

The  women  gave  their  story  now,  dwelling  on 
the  many  kindnesses  they  had  received,  dropping 


So  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

from  the  narrative  the  whole  extent  of  their  suffer- 
ings that  first  day.  George  suspected  there  was 
something  held  back.  He  looked  at  Crissy  with  a 
suspicious  tenderness  in  his  eyes. 

Burton  and  his  young  friend  soon  r  tired  to 
their  old  sleeping  apartment  in  the  auditorium. 
They  would  have  the  next  day — Sunday — to  talk 
things  over,  returning  to  their  farmer  toward  even- 
ing, to  be  on  hand  for  next  morning's  sunrise 
work. 

At  breakfast  the  following  morning,  where 
plenty  reigned,  though  elegance  was  decidedly 
lacking,  Burton  told  his  wife  that  he  was  on  the 
track  of  a  way  out  of  their  difficulties.  He  had 
made  an  acquaintance  in  the  country  who  would 
likely  serve  them  a  good  turn.  He  wouldn't  say 
much  about  it  yet,  but  she  should  see.  For  the 
present  they  must  all  keep  on  working  to  try  to 
get  enough  together  to  redeem  their  wardrobes. 
Mrs.  Burton  knew  well  her  husband's  extraordinary 
facility  for  getting  out  of  the  apparently  hopeless 
positions  his  excesses  plunged  him  in.  The  Yan- 
kee faculty,  called  "gumption,"  he  employed  for 
this  purpose  was  remarkable  in  its  results.  If  he 
had  been  a  strictly  temperate  man,  he  would  have 
been  astonishingly  successful  in  all  he  undertook. 
The  Sunday  passed  too  quickly. 

When  the  men  prepared  to  leave,  Leoline  wept 
and  clung  to  her  father.  This  child  loved  her 
father  passionately.  She  knew  he  was  the  cause  of 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR,  81 

their  many  sufferings,  yet  she  felt  for  him  a  pecul- 
iar tenderness.  Much  as  she  adored  her  mother, 
she  loved  her  besotted  father  still  more. 

Another  week  passed  uneventfully.  Their  great- 
est trial  was  the  lack  of  wearing  apparel.  They 
had  to  put  Leoline  to  bed  till  her  clothing  could  be 
washed  and  dried.  The  poor  child,  covered  by  a 
light  quilt — sold  to  them  by  the  kindly  -  faced 
young  dry  goods  man,  at  a  price  which  was  a  mere 
pretence  of  selling — would  sit  in  her  bed  of  thea- 
tre benches,  conning  over  old  play  books  to  amuse 
herself.  None  of  them  minded  these  trials  very 
much;  there  was  hope  ahead. 

When  the  men  returned  the  ensuing  Saturday 
night,  George  brought  Leoline  a  bunch  of  flowers 
as  big  as  his  head.  The  central  blossom  of  this 
great  bouquet  was  a  sunflower.  It  appeared  that 
the  farmer  felt  such  delight  at  their  totally  unex- 
pected return  to  him,  that  he  inquired  more  close- 
ly into  particulars  about  their  "folks."  Ascertain- 
ing that  a  child  was  one  of  the  group,  he  sent  her 
"  this  han'ful  of  hum  grown  posies."  Burton  also 
carried,  as  an  offering  to  the  loves  and  graces,  a 
dish  of  that  delicious  honey. 

On  Sunday  morning  Burton  produced  his 
"  plans,"  fully  matured,  for  the  admiring  inspec- 
tion of  the  rest.  He  had  formed  the  acquaintance 
of  the  captain  of  a  steamboat,  a  stern  wheeler ; 
"never  saw  her  yet" — observed  Burton  parentheti- 
cally,— "but  understand  she's  a  great  big  thing, 


82  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

slow  and  sure ;  that  will  be  all  the  better,  we  won't 
want  anything  fast  for  our  purpose." 

His  wife  looked  amazed.  "What  under  the 
sun,"  she  exclaimed,  "would  we  have  to  do  with  a 
steamer?" 

Then  Burton  went  on  explaining  how  they  in- 
tended to  turn  her  —  meaning,  of  course,  the 
steamer — into  a  floating  theatre ;  go  up  the  Mis- 
sissippi, stopping  at  all  the  small  towns  on  the 
way.  The  novelty  of  the  thing  would  draw 
crowds.  There  would  be  no  hall  rent  to  pay.  No 
knocking  about.  Would  be  living  on  the  boat  all 
the  time.  Could  get  together  a  fair  sized  com- 
pany in  a  few  days.  Play  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  in 
those  northern  towns ;  it  was  sure  to  be  received 
enthusiastically.  All  that  was  needed  was  the 
wardrobe.  Captain  Glockner  could  put  his  hands 
upon  an  engineer  and  pilot  who  would  be  delight- 
ed to  have  the  chance  of  going  out  with  a  theatri- 
cal company.  As  for  salaries,  all  who  went  would 
arrange  that  that  should  be  according  to  business. 
If  successful,  as  it  surely  would  be,  the  captain,  on 
account  of  furnishing  the  boat,  the  crew,  and  man- 
ning her,  should  have  half  the  profits  over  and 
above  the  expenses.  So  far  as  Burton  could  see, 
it  was  a  fine  idea ;  anyhow  it  would  run  them  out 
of  this  rat-hole  of  a  place.  As  for  people  to  act, 
no  trouble  about  that,  the  town  was  full  of  stage- 
struck  young  men,  and  women,  too!  Captain 
Glockner  knew  one  young  woman  who  was  bound 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  83 

to  run  away  from  home  and  go  on  the  stage. 
She'd  go  anyhow,  so  she  might  as  well  go  with 
them.  One  more  woman  would  fill  the  cast  for 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 

They  listened  to  this  rapid  summary  of  the 
"plan"  with  deep  interest.  Crissy  felt  something  of 
a  shock  over  the  young  woman  who  was  bound  to 
run  away  from  home.  Crissy,  feeling  herself 
unable  to  do  anything  against  her  mother's  wish, 
could  not  quite  understand  how  any  other  girl 
would  defy  the  parental  authority.  To  be  sure, 
Crissy's  father,  when  sober,  had  interposed  objec- 
tions to  her  stage  career ;  but  when  a  man  fails  in 
the  fatherly  duty  of  providing  food  and  raiment 
for  his  young — when  he  fails  by  his  own  fault — his 
authority,  to  a  great  extent,  must  become  null. 
Crissy,  drawing  upon  the  deeps  of  her  ample  imag- 
ination, did  what  the  female  mind  does  with  such 
facility — personified  the  idea.  The  girl  stood  before 
her  at  once;  enthusiastic,  yet  modest;  eager,  yet 
diffident  —  then  Crissy's  heart  yearned  toward  this 
creature  of  her  young  fancy. 

Burton  was  still  talking  over  details  as  Crissy 
thought  all  this.  The  child  was  charmed  by  the 
thought  of  living  on  a  boat.  "  Shall  we  always 
have  our  breakfast  and  everything  on  it,  papa?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Yes,  darling,"  her  father  answered,  "  so  long 
as  we  are  able  to  earn  the  breakfast.  In  a  few  days 
more  we  will  have  saved  money  enough  to  get  our 


84  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

baggage  back,  then  Ho!  for  the  river  and  a  free 
life." 

Mrs.  Burton  did  not  secretly  like  the  plan  any 
too  well;  she  had  a  notion,  not  ill  founded,  that 
river  men  generally  were  a  rough  lot.  She  knew 
that  there  would  be  breakers  ahead,  but  she  did 
not  like  to  openly  object,  as  she  on  her  part  had 
nothing  more  feasible  to  propose.  She  also  knew 
that  her  health  was  quite  inadequate  to  bear  the 
protracted  strain  of  the  kind  of  life  they  were 
living.  She  set  her  fine  executive  abilities  to  work, 
therefore,  in  aiding  and  shaping  her  husband's 
plans— she,  like  Crissy,  was  anxious  over  the  girl 
"bound  to  run  away."  When  alone  with  her  hus- 
band, she  questioned  him.  "  See  here,  Lizzie,"  he 
said,  "  as  far  as  I  can  hear  the  girl's  character  is 
all  right;  she  is  very  handsome,  perhaps  talented. 
We  are  not  in  a  position  to  be  over  squeamish  any- 
how. You  know  we  can't  stage  "  Uncle  Tom " 
without  another  woman.  It  isn't  every  girl  has 
snap  enough  to  run  away  from  home ;  we'd  better 
take  what  we  can  get." 

Mrs.  Burton  assented  rather  reluctantly.  Bur- 
ton then,  considerably  to  his  wife's  astonishment, 
revealed  the  fact  that  the  carpenters  were  at  work 
already  upon  this  boat,  building  a  stage,  turning 
the  largest  portion  of  her  into  an  audience  room 
with  quite  a  seating  capacity,  arranging  dressing 
rooms  back  of  the  stage,  etc. 

"  All  rough,  of  course,"  said  Burton,  "  but  good 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  85 

enough  for  the  class  of  amusement  seekers  we're 
likely  to  entertain."  He  said  the  boat  was  in  a 
sheltered  position  a  few  miles  down  the  river, 
where  she  would  be  free  from  observation;  for 
business  reasons  "  they  didn't  want  to  give  the 
thing  away."  If  Burton  suspected  the  captain  had 
any  other  motives  for  keeping  the  boat  in  this 
sequestered  spot,  he  did  not.  mention  them  to  his 
wife. 

Some  time  during  that  Sunday,  George  noticed 
Leoline  running  about  the  room  hugging  her  big 
bouquet  with  the  ardor  little  girls  display  toward 
anything  they  love.  "Ah!  Leo,"  he  said,  "some 
day  when  you're  a  famous  actress  they  will  pelt  you 
with  roses.  Then  you'll  have  more  flowers  than 
you'll  know  what  to  do  with." 

A  sudden  sedateness  fell  upon  the  child;  she 
stood  still  before  him,  with  a  world  of  meaning  in 
her  lovely  face.  "  George,"  she  said,  gravely, 
"  often  there,"  pointing  to  the  baize-covered  doors 
which  led  to  the  auditorium,  "  I  play  upon  the 
stage — queer  little  plays,  you  know,  that  are  made 
out  of  my  own  head — I  dance  pretty  dances  that 
I  make  up  as  I  go  along.  I  clap  my  hands  at  the 
good  points,  having  to  be  audience  as  well  as  per- 
former. I  love  it,  George,  and  yet  —  "  she  paused 
for  a  long  spell  and  looked  dreamily  beyond  him, 
"  and  yet,  I  seem  to  know  that  I'll  never  be  a 
famous  actress — never  an  actress  at  all  perhaps." 

George  looked  at  her  in  perplexity.  "Why  Leo," 


86  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

he  said  gently,  "you're  an  actress  already.  You 
have  acted,  and  you're  going  to  act,  you're  going 
to  be  the  sweetest  little  Eva  on  the  stage." 

The  child  nestled  her  head  with  its  crown  of 
golden  ringlets  against  his  shoulder;  she  looked 
very  pensive.  George  was  aware  of  an  indescrib- 
ably troubled  sensation. 

The  men  concluded  to  let  their  farmer  have  a 
couple  more  days.  George  said  the  old  fellow 
had  been  pretty  good  to  them  despite  the  locking 
up.  It  was  a  shame  to  leave  him  with  the  unbound 
sheaves  upon  his  fields,  anyhow,  by  the  end  of  that 
week,  they  would  be  rehearsing  aboard  the  boat  and 
steaming  off  to  regions  as  yet  unexplored  by  them. 

All  now  was  anticipation  and  hope;  the  women 
still  sewed,  however.  The  child  trotted  over  every 
part  of  the  theatre,  bidding  affectionate  good  bye 
to  those  dark  corners  where  she  had  played  so 
often.  She  presented  to  an  imaginary  audience  a 
farewell  play  and  dance,  interspersed  with  choice 
vocal  selections  rendered  by  herself.  On  Thurs- 
day evening  the  men  returned.  George  laughingly 
told  Crissy,  that  the  trouble  with  their  new  venture 
was,  that  more  young  fellows  wanted  to  join  than 
they  could  take;  that  lots  of  the  boys  importuned 
him  with  representations  of  how  they  could  musi- 
cate,  dance  and  sing;  that  the  plan  with  the  young 
woman  bound  to  run  away  was  settled.  That  the 
next  evening,  about  ten  o'clock,  he  and  another 
young  fellow  would  stand  under  a  window  of  her 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  87 

residence,  from  which  she  would  throw  to  their 
keeping  a  large  bundle  of  clothes.  They  found 
this  the  only  way  to  manage  it,  as  the  girl  said  she 
couldn't  go  without  her  clothing.  She  would  leave 
the  house  unobserved  the  day  succeeding  and  join 
them.  The  wardrobe,  rescued  from  the  clutches 
of  that  woman,  should  be  sent  to  the  boat  at  once. 
On  Saturday  afternoon  a  wagon  would  be  provided 
to  pick  up  the  different  parties  going  ;  they  would 
drive  out  of  town  a  few  miles  to  where  the  boat 
was  fastened,  then  up  steam  and  away. 

The  morning  of  that  Saturday  Burton  secured 
a  buggy  to  drive  his  wife  over  to  the  boat,  as  the 
wagon  would  be  a  rough  conveyance  for  her ; 
Crissy  and  Leoline  would  follow  in  the  afternoon 
with  the  rest.  George  was  aboard  already,  superin- 
tending everything  in  his  usual  helpful  manner. 
There  is  one  period  of  a  woman's  life  which 
appears  to  stand  distinctly  in  the  foreground  of 
her  mental  vision  —  that  day,  or  time,  when  the 
light-hearted  exuberance  of  her  girlhood  took 
flight  forever,  leaving  her  the  woman's  intellect 
unadorned  by  that  unquestioning  happiness  which 
had  been  its  companion.  With  some  minds  this 
change  is  gradual,  with  others  it  seems  to  be  a 
sudden  unaccountable  leap  from  heedless  gayety 
to  realms  of  seriousness. 

This  day  had  come  to  Crissy ;  she  never  forgot 
the  drive  of  that  afternoon,  through  roads  which 
bordered  scented  clover  fields,  or  skirted  stretches 


88  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

of  woodland ;  where  the  bobolinks  and  thrushes 
warbled  to  them,  or  wound  through  fragrant  meadows 
where  wild  flowers  bloomed  in  bright  profusion. 
What  a  day  it  was !  how  full  of  light,  of  color,  of 
unthinking  joy !  Leoline  and  Crissy,  after  their 
long  incarceration  in  the  dusty  town,  felt  it  a  trans- 
formation scene.  The  fresh  breeze  from  the  river, 
the  insect  life  in  its  hum  of  summer  work,  the  mur- 
mur of  grass  and  trees  under  the  balmy  wind,  all 
these  made  an  unforgotten  day.  Crissy  almost 
wished  this  drive  might  never  end,  with  its  unex- 
pected delights,  its  jocund  surprises  !  The  young 
men, .  seeing  the  pleasure  of  the  girl  and  child, 
sprang  from  the  wagon  to  gather  blossoms  for 
them ;  tendering  these  tributes  with  a  rustic  man- 
ner through  which  shone  their  kind-heartedness 
like  a  diamond  in  some  dusky  corner. 

The  maiden  who  ran  away  joined  them  a  couple 
of  miles  out.  She  was  a  tall,  finely-formed  girl, 
with  a  profusion  of  dark  hair,  and  bold,  dark  eyes. 
She  showed  none  of  the  shrinking  modesty  Crissy 
had  expected ;  she  settled  herself  in  the  most  com- 
fortable place  she  could  find  in  the  wagon,  and 
looked  composedly  about  her.  She  had  little  or 
nothing  to  say ;  whether  this  was  from  natural  reti- 
cence, or  the  fact  that  not  having  much  to  say,  she 
didn't  care  to  say  it,  couldn't  be  determined.  Leo- 
line  looked  at  her  much  as  she  might  have  looked 
at  some  animal  she  was  afraid  of,  and  nestled  more 
closely  to  Crissy's  side. 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  89 

At  sundown  the  drive  was  ended.  In  a  bay-like 
place  upon  the  river,  which  they  had  been  follow- 
ing for  some  time,  they  came  suddenly  upon  the 
boat.  A  big  thing,  sure  enough  ;  there  she  was,  a 
queer  looking  monster,  with  two  large  smoke 
stacks,  and  an  immense  stern  wheel,  which  filled 
Leoline  with  surprise ;  her  lower  guards  unprotected 
by  railings  —  which  was  the  case  with  most  of  the 
river  boats  used,  as  she  had  been,  for  transporting 
merchandise  —  gave  her  a  rough,  unfinished  look. 
It  had  to  be  confessed  that  she  was  not  "a  thing  of 
beauty."  There  was  Mrs.  Burton  waving  her  hand 
to  them  from  the  upper  guards,  and  calling  to  them 
to  hurry  aboard,  for  supper  was  all  ready.  There 
was  George  with  a  pencil  behind  his  ear,  a  carpen- 
ter's apron  on,  a  hammer  in  his  hand,  smiling 
down  on  them.  They  unpacked  themselves  from 
the  wagon  - —  by  the  way,  quite  a  number  of  the 
young  men  took  turns  walking,  the  load  being  over 
large  —  then  over  the  gang  plank  they  ran,  eager 
to  inspect  their  new  lodgings  ;  no  time  for  this 
right  away,  for  they  were  hurried  up  a  queer,  nar- 
row stairway  to  a  cozy  cabin  which  had  a  carpeted 
floor  and  a  long  table  in  its  centre,  on  which  the 
supper  stood  invitingly.  That  they  did  justice  to 
that  supper  goes  without  telling.  As  the  repast  pro- 
gressed they  began  to  get  acquainted  with  each 
other.  Crissy  was  surprised  to  find  they  had 
five  musical  young  men  who  could  play  on  most 
anything,  could  sing  songs  both  comic  and  senti- 


9°  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

mental.  These  young  men  confessed  to  being 
amateurs,  but  what  of  that — they  could  learn !  None 
of  them  had  the  slightest  idea  how  to  act;  had  never 
had  the  chance  before  ;  but  never  mind  that,  they'd 
soon  learn  !  Crissy  heard  that  all  of  the  company 
had  not  collected  yet,  the  rest  would  arrive  during 
the  evening.  The  captain,  a  dark,  morose  man, 
sat  at  one  end  of  the  table,  Burton  occupied  the 
other.  The  captain  spent  his  time,  as  the  others 
conversed,  in  looking  gloomily  into  his  tea  cup 
with  a  preoccupied  expression.  The  supper  con- 
cluded, Mrs.  Burton  drew  Crissy  and  the  child  into 
the  little  state  room  fitted  up  as  their  sleeping 
apartment,  showing  them  the  conveniences  she  had 
contrived  for  them  ;  then  into  the  dressing  room 
arranged  for  the  ladies  ;  in  this  stood  the  trunks 
containing  the  lately  recovered  wardrobes.  As 
this  was  going  on,  the  young  lady  recently  added 
to  their  circle  sat  on  a  cushioned  seat  in  the  cabin 
—  which  did  triple  duty  as  dining  room,  green 
room  and  parlor — smiling  affably,  though  silently, 
on  those  around,  and  looking  very  handsome. 
Burton,  seated  at  one  end  of  the  table,  had  a  lot  of 
the  young  men  about  him,  looking  at  play  books 
and  talking  volubly.  Crissy  returning  to  the  cabin 
sat  in  a  corner  looking  on  with  interest ;  her  posi- 
tion commanding  a  view  of  the  double  doors  which 
opened  at  one  end  of  the  cabin  directly  back  of  the 
stage.  This  arrangement  was  a  necessary  conven- 
ience ;  for  the  characters  in  the  plays,  using  this 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  -91 

cabin  as  a  green  room,  could  slip  quickly  into 
their  positions  at  the  side  entrances  of  the  stage 
through  these  doors.  Crissy's  gaze  following  a 
sudden,  banging  sound,  she  saw  these  doors  thrown 
open  to  admit  the  person  of  a  young  man.  This 
young  man  held  an  open  play  book  in  his  right 
hand  raised  to  the  level  of  his  eyes.  He  came 
through  the  door  with  a  dramatic  stride  ;  he  was 
not  a  handsome  young  man — not  at  all  —  his 
face  was  of  the  "platter"  pattern,  he  wore  a  brown 
mustache  and  a  long  tailed  green  coat  unbuttoned 
its  length  of  front.  The  young  man  entered  after 
this  fashion  to  produce  an  impression  ;  he  certainly 
produced  one  on  Crissy,  for  she  could  not  restrain 
her  laughter.  Burton,  hearing  her  merriment, 
looked  up  to  ascertain  its  cause  ;  an  involuntary 
smile  crossed  his  countenance  as  his  eyes  encount- 
ered the  strange  figure.  He  rose  to  welcome  him, 
introducing  him  all  'round  as  his  young  friend, 
Mr.  Durand,  who  had  kindly  consented  to  under- 
take the  "juveniles." 

Crissy,  with  the  smiles  still  playing  hide  and 
seek  with  her  dimples,  rose  dutifully  to  shake 
hands  with  the  new  comer,  who  looked  down  upon 
her  with  a  haughtily  benignant  smile  as  if  to  say, 
"go  to,  thou  naughty  child."  Mr.  Durand  joined 
the  group  at  the  table  with  an  interested  yet 
"touch-me-not"  air,  which  was  highly  edifying. 

Mrs.  Burton,  entering  the  cabin  shortly  after, 
stood  transfixed  at  sight  of  this  personage  in  his 


92  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

green  coat  and  egotistical  condescension ;  catch- 
ing Crissy's  merry  glance  the  older  woman  was 
constrained  to  sudden  laughter.  In  the  guise  of 
absurdity,  the  tragic  element  of  their  future  stepped 
in.  There  is  an  extraordinary  vibration  in  the  first 
touching  of  two  lives  destined  to  act  upon  each 
other  for  a  lifetime,  even  if  that  action  should  be 
principally  through  remembrance.  This  vibration 
has  been  experienced  by  almost  every  man  and 
woman,  at  least  once,  through  their  allotted  time. 
It  is  often  erroneously  termed  "love  at  first  sight." 
We  say  erroneously,  for  the  singular  interest  of 
such  first  sensations  does  not  reach  love  at  all. 
Why  it  should  be  mistaken  for  this  serious  passion, 
it  is  hard  to  tell ;  that  it  is  frequently  the  prelude 
to  this  passion  cannot  be  denied.  Crissy  exper- 
ienced this  vibration,  knowing  not  its  elements 
of  danger ;  repelled,  yet  strongly  attracted  by 
Durand,  she  found  herself  observing  him  more 
than  she  was  wont  to  observe  young  men.  Another 
thing,  Crissy  felt  that  she  had  committed  a 
solecism.  Crissy  knew  very  well  that  young 
persons  don't  like  to  be  laughed  at,  yet  she  had 
been  betrayed  into  this  rudeness.  Her  disposition 
being  generous,  she  was  more  than  ready  to  render 
the  amende  honorable ;  she  proceeded  to  do  this 
after  the  manner  of  girls.  When  Durand's  eyes 
wandered  in  her  .direction  she  met  their  gaze  with 
frank  kindness ;  when,  later  in  the  evening,  he 
asked  her  idea  as  to  the  reading  of  certain  pas- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  93 

sages  in  St.  Clair — he  had  been  cast  for  this — she 
modestly  and  quietly  gave  her  opinion. 

So  much  had  to  be  arranged,  that  all  sat  up  till 
late  that  night.  Burton  ended  the  evening  by 
calling  upon  them  for  a  rehearsal  the  next  fore- 
noon. Though  they  never  even  thought  of  giving  a 
performance  on  Sunday,  they  found  it  would 
require  much  rehearsing  to  get  these  raw  recruits 
into  anything  like  playing  shape.  Crissy  wondered 
that  the  boat  did  not  start ;  she  supposed  they 
would  be  off  as  soon  as  all  the  company  came 
aboard ;  it  was  midnight  now,  and  not  a  sound  of 
preparation  from  the  steamer. 

Early  in  the  evening  little  Leoline  had  fallen 
asleep  in  the  upper  berth  destined  for  the  use  of 
herself  and  Crissy.  When  Crissy  essayed  to  get 
into  it,  she  found  the  task  more  difficult  than  it 
appeared ;  how  queer  it  was  to  be  sleeping  in  a 
berth.  However  the  mattress  was  soft,  the  linen 
delightfully  clean,  and  Crissy  was  soon  in  the 
land  of  dreams.  She  woke  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  with  a  frightened  feeling,  she  could 
not  recall  at  first  just  where  she  was.  Putting 
out  her  hand,  it  struck  the  boarding  of  the  par- 
tition; she  had  a  drowsy  sense  of  being  shut  into 
a  box ;  then  she  became  aware  of  a  trembling 
movement  in  all  surrounding  her,  a  pulsation 
like  the  beating  of  a  tremendous  heart,  under, 
above,  all  about  her.  The  boat  was  under  steam, 
and  passing  swiftly,  in  the  blackness  of  that  early 


94  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

morning  hour,  the  town  where  Crissy  had  suffered 
so  much. 

The  sun  had  scarcely  risen  when  Crissy  became 
thoroughly  awakened ;  she  turned  her  gaze  upon 
her  little  companion,  the  child  was  lying  quite 
motionless  but  with  wide  open  eyes.  "Dear 
Crissy,"  she  whispered,  "  I  have  been  awake  a  long 
time,  but  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you  or  mamma." 

Crissy  kissed  her  smilingly,  the  child  whispered 
again,  "Do  you  think  we  could  get  up  ever  so 
softly  and  dress  without  waking  mamma,  it  must 
be  beautiful  on  the  deck." 

Crissy  said  she  would  try  ;  letting  herself  out  of 
the  berth  by  the  process  of  backing  out,  where, 
with  her  arms  on  the  edge  of  her  couch  and  her 
legs  dangling  in  the  air,  she  hung  for  an  instant 
scarcely  daring  to  let  herself  go.  The  child 
peeped  laughingly  over  the  edge.  At  last  Crissy 
let  go  and  reached  the  floor  with  realistic  solidity. 
She  assisted  Leoline  from  the  high  perch,  and  they 
soon  made  their  way  to  the  deck. 

They  were  steaming  along  at  what  they  thought 
a  good  rate  of  speed,  though  Crissy  heard  after 
that  this  boat  was  far  from  renowned  for  her 
swiftness. 

All  was  beautiful  indeed;  the  river  gurgled  lov- 
ingly along  the  rocky  shore  or  wandered  inland  to 
little  creeks  and  bays.  In  some  places  great  trees 
dipped  their  branches  in  the  water,  while  from 
them  rose  the  morning  hymn  of  feathered  song- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  95 

sters.  Inland  in  little  pools  they  saw  the  water 
lilies  looking  at  themselves  in  the  transparent 
depths ;  from  the  blue  sky  tinged  with  its  morning 
blush,  from  the  dreamily  murmuring  water,  from 
the  depths  of  foliage  on  either  side  of  the  grand 
stream,  came  a  voice  of  gladness  bidding  the  earth 
be  blessed.  The  girl  and  child  contemplated 
everything  with  unspoken  rapture,  they  joined  un- 
consciously in  the  great  paean  of  this  morning 
hour. 

As  they  stood  leaning  against  the  guards, 
Durand  sauntered  up  to  them, — the  revealing  light 
of  the  early  hour  made  the  plainness  of  his  coun- 
tenance more  pronounced.  He  had  divested  him- 
self of  that  ridiculous  green  coat,  disclosing  a  fine 
figure,  above  the  medium  height.  His  movements 
were  full  of  natural  grace ;  he  greeted  them  in  a 
way  carelessly  pleasant,  then  looked  unconcernedly 
about  him.  The  child  glanced  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression which  intimated  plainly  that  he  was  an 
interloper  ;  for  her  the  charm  of  the  morning  was 
broken.  He  talked  with  Crissy  about  the  play  and 
coming  rehearsal ;  the  girl  lingered,  held  by  some 
undefinable  attraction.  The  conversation  was  finally 
interrupted  by  the  call  to  breakfast. 

The  rehearsal  proved  a  trying  thing  to  Burton, 
who  was  stage  manager  and  drilled  them  all ;  the 
rehearsal  might  be  said  to  be  the  crucial  test  of 
their  abilities.  On  the  whole  they  did  better  than 
could  have  been  expected,  with  one  exception, — 


96  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

that  exception  was  the  damsel  of  the  luminous 
black  eyes.  It  was  just  impossible  to  make  Clara 
read  her  lines  understandingly.  When  Burton  en- 
deavored to  explain  the  stage  business  to  her,  she 
looked  bewildered  and  said  it  wasn't  in  the  book. 
If  she  had  been  confused  or  anxious  he  could  have 
helped  to  make  something  of  her,  but  she  was  only 
stolidly  dull.  Clad  in  her  "panoply  of  beauty" 
she  trod  the  boards  like  a  queen,  and  might  have 
got  on  famously  if  it  was  not  necessary  to  open 
her  mouth.  At  the  close  of  rehearsal  Crissy  heard 
Burton  mutter  to  himself,  "handsome  fool!" 

This  girl  was  a  puzzle  to  Crissy  from  the  first. 
Though  so  attractive  in  form  and  feature,  her  at- 
tractions appeared  to  be  ignored  by  the  young 
men  of  the  company ;  her  taciturnity  was  seldom 
intruded  upon.  These  young  men  being  Clara's 
townspeople  may  have  had  their  own  notions 
about  her ;  at  all  events  they  gave  her,  in  sailor 
parlance,  "a  wide  berth."  To  Crissy,  who  was 
nothing  like  as  handsome  as  the  other  girl,  they 
displayed  every  kindness  and  attention.  Crissy 
found  it  impossible  to  form  a  friendship  with 
Clara,  they  had  not  an  idea  in  common  ;  she  had 
moreover  an  undefined  suspicion  that  Clara  con- 
sidered her  a  mere  baby.  Crissy  asked  George 
one  day  what  he  thought  of  Clara.  George  re- 
plied emphatically  that  he  didn't  think  of  her  at 
all ;  that  she  wasn't  worth  thinking  about ;  she  was 
nothing  but  a  handsome  creature  without  a  particle 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  97 

of  soul ;  as  for  acting,  she'd  never  learn  that,  if  she 
was  at  it  for  a  hundred  years! 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  was  produced  in  fair  shape, 
considering  the  large  amateur  element  pervading 
it.  The  boat  performances  proved,  as  Burton  pre- 
dicted, quite  taking.  Leoline's  Eva  was  received 
with  liveliest  commendation.  Crissy  as  Topsy  was 
equally  successful.  They  usually  arrived  in  a  town 
on  one  or  the  other  side  of  the  river  in  the  morn- 
ing, then  they  sent  some  of  the  young  folks  out  to 
bill  the  town,  Burton  and  the  captain  going  ashore 
to  purchase  supplies.  They  had  an  excellent  male 
cook,  a  young  man  devoted  to  the  captain;  their 
pilot  was  a  good  one,  well  acquainted  with  the 
river.  He  had  a  weakness  though — he  sometimes 
looked  too  deeply  into  the  flowing  bowl.  Imme- 
diately after  the  night  performance,  they  would 
up  steam  and  off  toward  the  next  stopping  place. 

A  number  of  weeks  slipped  by  ;  with  these  weeks 
came  changes  imperceptible  at  first.  Durand 
proved  equal  to  the  call  upon  his  histrionic  abili- 
ties, being  by  far  their  best  actor  next  to  the  pro- 
fessionals. He  also  slowly,  no  one  could  have 
told  how,  gained  a  sort  of  ascendancy  over  the 
humanity  around  him  ;  not  that  they  grew  to  know 
him  any  more  —  none  of  them  ever  did  that — per- 
haps it  was  that  he  knew  them  better.  He  had  a 
magnetism  about  him  none  could  resist,  and  yet 
they  did  not  like  him  ;  they  knew  instinctively  that 
he  was  not  of  them.  His  language,  his  general 


98  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

carriage,  was  that  of  a  highly  educated  man.  In 
this  motley  gathering  of  partially  educated  persons 
from  different  walks  in  life,  he  stood  a  startling  ex- 
ception ;  among  these  rather  indifferently  clad  and 
rather  uncouth  young  men,  he  walked  carelessly  in 
neat  apparel,  every  shred  of  which  seemed  adapted 
to  his  lithe,  graceful  figure.  He  was  never  short 
of  money.  This  alone  was  a  distinctive  character- 
istic where  the  rest  suffered  from  an  incessant  lack 
of  the  "needful."  There  was  not  a  man  among 
them  who  would  have  put  a  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der and  talked  confidentially  with  him,  yet  not  one 
of  them  would  refuse  to  do  anything  he  asked 
them.  Not  that  they  did  things  because  they  liked 
to  do  for  him,  but  because  they  felt  impelled  to  do 
them.  This  man  was  gaining  over  Crissy  the  un- 
explainable  influence  he  had  over  all  the  rest.  He 
didn't  mean  to  do  it  or  care  to  do  it ;  love  was  the 
remotest  thing  in  the  world  from  his  thoughts  just 
then. 

The  girl  was  a  phenomenon  to  him.  Virtue 
in  any  girl,  particularly  an  actress — you  see  he 
shared  the  popular  impression  —  was  amazing  to 
him.  He  would  gaze  with  an  ever-increasing  per- 
plexity upon  this  girl,  whose  soul,  innocent  as  a 
young  child's,  looked  gravely  at  him  from  her  large 
eyes,  he  had  a  singularly  abashed  feeling  when  with 
her,  if  there  was  any  good  in  him  it  asserted  itself 
through  this  abashment.  His  thoughts,  when  she 
stood  near  him,  lost  their  wicked  retrospect,  turn- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  99 

ing  hungrily  to  the  simplicity  of  her  gentle  fan- 
cies ;  he  liked  to  talk  with  her,  but  he  didn't  like 
that  any  should  observe  him  doing  so.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  when  Crissy  was  with  others 
he  scarcely  noticed  her,  but  often,  very  often,  after 
a  few  weeks,  as  she  sat  alone  upon  the  deck  or  near 
the  guards,  he  would  suddenly  stand  beside  her ;  it 
always  seemed  sudden  to  Crissy,  for  she  seldom 
saw  or  heard  him  coming.  It  was  a  number  of 
weeks  ere  Crissy  observed  the  fact  that  he  sought 
her  society  when  no  one  else  was  near;  when  at 
last  she  noticed  it,  it  came  upon  her  with  a  sense 
of  shock. 

Crissy,  always  as  transparent  as  the  day,  showed 
plainly  that  she  was  not  her  old  playful,  happy 
self.  She  took  long  spells  of  musing ;  she  was 
much  more  pensive  now  than  in  their  greatest  hard- 
ships. 

One  day  George  came  to  Mrs.  Burton  with  a 
troubled  face ;  for  weeks  he  had  felt  that  Crissy 
was  drifting  away  from  him, — -the  poor  fellow  was 
growing  desperate.  Mrs.  Burton  who  was  getting 
exceedingly  anxious  herself,  knew  what  was  com- 
ing. She,  in  fact  every  one,  except  Crissy,  knew 
how  dearly  George  loved  the  girl ;  his  honest  na- 
ture could  not  conceal  such  a  tenderness  as  this. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  George,  "what  has  come 
over  Crissy?  She's  not  the  girl  she  used  to  be  ;  she 
was  always  so  gay — now  she  mopes  around  and 
hardly  speaks  a  word." 


100  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

"I  can't  tell  exactly,"  Mrs.  Burton  replied.  "I 
know  how  you  feel,  George.  I  am  worried,  too. 
I'll  try  to  find  out  why  she  is  so  unlike  herself." 
With  this  George  had  to  be  content. 

Mrs.  Burton  had  her  private  suspicions  as  to 
the  real  cause  of  this  change.  She  felt  —  she 
didn't  reason  it  out — but  felt  ^- that  Durand  was 
a  man  to  be  dreaded.  She  was  well  aware  of  the 
influence  he  exerted  on  all  who  approached  him, 
but  what  could  she  do?  The  girl  was  evidently 
falling  under  his  spell,  but  nothing  had  been  con- 
fessed to  her ;  there  was  really  nothing  tangible  to 
work  upon.  Knowing  the  natural  bent  of  youth, 
she  feared  that  warning  Crissy  against  this  man 
would  precipitate  a  passion  on  the  girl's  part. 
One  thing  she  was  convinced  of,  that  if  Crissy 
loved  him  already,  she  —  Crissy  —  didn't  know  it 
herself.  She  could  do  just  one  thing  in  the  pres- 
ent position  of  affairs,  and  only  one, — make  a  bar- 
rier of  herself  between  Durand  and  Crissy ;  keep 
him  beside  her  on  the  pretext  of  an  innocent  flirta- 
tion, distract  his  attention  from  the  girl.  His 
vanity  —  she  was  sure  he  had  plenty  of  it  —  would 
soon  bring  this  about.  She  knew  well  that  Crissy 
had  a  proud  little  heart  which  would  resent  any 
slight  to  her  affections.  This  girl — who  was  not 
too  proud  to  beg  for  work  upon  the  streets,  to  face 
opprobrium,  danger  or  trouble  of  any  kind  to 
help  another — had  a  spirit  which  would  make  her 
sternly  crush  an  unreciprocated  love,  and  turn  with 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  IOI 

scorn  from  any  one  who  made  light  of  her  feelings. 
Mrs.  Burton  did  not  know  how  often  Durand  had 
contrived  to  spend  hours  alone  with  Crissy.  The 
girl  somehow  couldn't  tell  her  this.  There  wasn't 
much  to  tell.  Two  people  sitting  or  standing  near 
each  other,  exchanging  utterly  commonplace  re- 
marks, or  looking  dreamily  at  the  river  for  half  an 
hour  at  a  time  without  a  word. 

Mrs.  Burton  opened  her  batteries  at  once,  yet 
under  cover;  she  knew  how  important  it  was  that 
the  enemy  should  not  suspect  her  designs.  The 
wisest,  the  most  skillful  player  at  any  game  is 
liable  to  serious  mistakes ;  a  false  move  at  the  start 
may  do  so  much.  One  should  remember  that  the 
bystanders  who  watch  the  game  may  have  a  mis- 
taken conception  as  to  the  meaning  of  our  play. 
Mrs.  Burton  could  not  take  Burton  into  her  confi- 
dence in  this  matter.  She  knew  he  would  be  so 
angry  at  the  thought  of  any  one  trifling  with 
Crissy,  that  it  might  lead  to  open  recriminations 
between  Durand  and  himself.  Besides  there  was  a 
chance,  a  mere  chance,  that  she  was  mistaken  in 
her  hypothesis  ;  if  so,  how  ludicrous  the  situation 
with  Burton  flamingly  angry  against  an  innocent 
party. 

She  began  operations  immediately ;  she  was 
surprised  to  find  how  readily  Durand  fell  into  the 
position  assigned  him.  He  sat  near  her  as  she 
sewed,  and  read  aloud  to  her.  If  she  and  Leoline 
took  a  little  walk  ashore,  he  was  with  them.  Did 


102  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

she  want  some  trifling  errand  performed,  Durand 
was  near  to  do  it.  He  talked  to  her  with  a  defer- 
ential tenderness  as  if  she  had  been  his  mother. 
She  didn't  know  —  how  could  she,  not  being  able 
to  look  inside  the  man? — what  a  wily  adversary 
she  had.  From  the  instant  she  began  to  keep  him 
at  her  side,  Durand  knew  what  she  was  about.  He 
was  inwardly  amused.  This  was  no  new  game  to 
him ;  he  would  humor  her,  but  henceforth  he 
would  be  more  circumspect  with  little  Crissy.  She 
was  a  sweet  girl ;  but  pshaw !  what  did  he  care  for 
girls  or  women?  He  had  had  a  surfeit  of  what 
people  called  love. 

For  a  week  succeeding,  Crissy  never  saw  him 
alone.  As  it  was  falling  dusk  one  evening, 
she  walked  from  her  lonely  place  on  deck  to 
answer  the  summons  to  supper ;  unexpectedly  to 
both,  they  came  face  to  face.  Crissy,  never  an 
adept  at  concealing  her  emotions,  was  at  such  dis- 
advantage now,  that  before  she  could  control  her- 
self her  eyes  sought  his  with  a  world  of  silent  re- 
proach and  sorrow  in  them  ;  heavy  tears  gathered 
in  them ;  without  a  word  she  passed  him  and  en- 
tered the  cabin.  Durand  stood  stock  still,  more 
shaken  by  this  look  than  he  had  ever  been  by  any 
of  the  griefs  or  hysterics  of  his  erst  time  mistresses. 
Then  she  did  miss  him  ;  she  liked  him.  He  had  no 
feeling  of  conquest  or  pride  in  this  knowledge ;  a 
scorn  of  himself — knowing  himself  as  he  did — 
came  over  him ;  that  this  pure  girl  should  love  a 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  103 

libertine  like  him !  It  was  a  pity  that  Crissy 
had  given  him  this  peep  into  her  heart ;  it  was 
such  an  honest  heart  that  it  attracted  him  by  the 
law  of  opposites. 

He  paid  Mrs.  Burton  more  assiduous  attention 
than  ever  that  evening  ;  waiting  at  the  sides  as  she 
came  off  the  stage  to  compliment  her  acting  and 
appearance,  following  her  about  with  humble  obed- 
ience to  her  every  look  and  smile.  Even  George, 
usually  obtuse  in  such  matters,  noticed  wonder- 
ingly  the  growing  friendship  between  the  two. 
There  was  another  who  watched  it  with  gloomy 
eyes. 

For  a  few  days  succeeding,  Durand  vacillated 
between  the  desire,  ever  growing  stronger,  to  see 
more  of  Crissy,  and  the  intention,  ever  growing 
weaker,  to  leave  the  girl  alone.  The  devil,  noting 
that  it  was  seeding  time  for  him,  did  his  best  to  get 
his  work  in  ;  it  is  true  that  the  soil  was  in  fine  con- 
dition for  such  seeding.  Then  Durand  took  a  fatal 
step  ;  having  reasoned  the  thing  out,  as  he  thought, 
he  made  a  compromise.  He  would  see  Crissy  as 
often  as  he  could  unobserved,  but  he  would  never 
make  love  to  her.  The  poor  child  was  evidently 
hurt  by  his  neglect ;  he  was  foolish  after  all  in  tak- 
ing for  granted  that  she  loved  him.  Then  he  ana- 
lyzed the  look  she  had  given  him,  and  being  anx- 
ious for  the  time  being,  to  convince  himself  that 
she  didn't  love  him,  called  himself  a  conceited  ass 
for  having  for  a  moment  imagined  such  a  thing. 


104  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

All  drifted  back  to  the  former  channel.  Durand 
danced  attendance  upon  Mrs.  Burton  before  that 
little  world  the  old  boat  encircled ;  in  stray  se- 
questered hours  he  sought  his  innocent  young 
friend ;  she  unquestioningly  took  back  the  happi- 
ness that  had  been  slipping  from  her.  As  these 
things  progressed,  the  child,  who  from  the  first  had 
taken  an  unconquerable,  unshaken  dislike  to 
Durand,  clung  more  closely  to  George  and  her 
father.  Not  that  Burton  or  George  could  be  said 
to  be  neglected  by  Mrs.  Burton  or  Crissy.  They 
were  together  most  of  the  time,  but  we  all  know 
what  it  is  to  have  a  friend  beside  you  ;  yet  the  dis- 
tance of  a  continent  between,  an  unexplainable  line 
of  division  exists,  the  harder  to  cross  because  im- 
palpable. George,  secretly  chafing,  wondered  that 
with  all  Mrs.  Burton's  promises  to  help  him,  he 
got  no  nearer  to  Crissy. 

An  incident  occurred  now  which  challenged  the 
general  attention.  Clara  had  pursued  the  "even 
tenor"  of  her  way  —  which  was  an  aggravatingly 
stupid  -one  —  without  any  improvement  in  her 
Thespian  efforts ;  without  evincing  the  slightest 
desire  toward  even  ordinary  progress.  All  had  set- 
tled to  the  firm  conviction  that  she  was  to  the  com- 
pany what  a  mantel  shelf  figure  is  to  the  drawing 
room. 

One  afternoon  —  they  were  well  up  river  and 
stopping  at  quite  a  large  town — Crissy  coming  into 
the  cabin  after  a  long  walk  with  Leoline,  Mrs.  Bur- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  105 

ton  and  Durand  —  the  two  last  had  lagged  consid- 
erably behind —  found  a  couple  of  figures  seated 
in  the  cabin.  A  small  table  stood  between  the  two 
on  which  was  a  bottle  conspicuously  labeled  French 
brandy.  One  figure,  totally  strange  to  Crissy,  was 
that  of  a  heavily  bearded,  florid  gendeman,  the 
other,  Clara.  There  was  a  deep  flush  on  Clara's 
statuesque  face,  a  wild  light  in  her  eyes,  her  laughter 
was  loud  and  strident,  as  she  clinked  her  half-filled 
glass  against  the  gentleman's.  Crissy  stood  almost 
petrified  with  astonishment.  Clara,  looking  up,  saw 
the  girl,  and  gurgling  out  a  curse  word,  strangely 
linked  with  one  of  welcome,  invited  her  to  par- 
take. Crissy  fled.  An  hour  later  she  saw  Burton 
talking  earnestly  with  his  wife;  his  brow  was  heavily 
clouded,  he  muttered  something  about  scandalous 
proceedings.  Clara  did  not  appear  in  that  even- 
ing's performance  ;  some  hasty  doubling  was  done 
to  make  up  for  her.  She  left  the  boat  late  that 
afternoon  with  the  bearded  gentleman,  and  they 
never  saw  or  heard  of  her  again. 

This  event  made  a  profound  impression  on 
Crissy.  She  had  wandered  for  nearly  a  year 
with  these  unlucky  players.  She  had  become 
acquainted  with  many  women  in  the  profession, 
but  never  yet  a  bad  one.  Here  was  this  girl 
Clara,  not  a  professional,  coming  into  their  midst 
ostensibly  to  learn  to  be  an  actress,  yet  in  one 
hour  Crissy  saw  more  depravity  in  this  girl 
than  in  any  female  of  her  year's  experience. 


106  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

A  light  broke  on  her ;  it  was  through  such  as  these 
that  the  profession  became  a  word  of  reproach. 

As  they  journeyed  onward  one  thing  had  puzzled 
Crissy  exceedingly,  the  fact  of  passing  some  large 
and  thriving  towns  without  stopping  to  play  there- 
at. One  morning  as  they  steamed  past  one  of 
these,  she  ventured  —  being  on  the  hurricane  deck 
—  to  step  into  the  pilot's  house  and  inquire  of  that 
officer  what  they  passed  for.  "  Why,  Miss,"  he 
answered  trying  to  modulate  his  rough  voice,  "  you 
see  we  has  to  do  it  or  we'd  be  tied  up!"  Crissy 
couldn't  imagine  what  he  meant,  but  didn't  like  to 
question  him  more. 

The  afternoon  of  this  same  day  they  stopped  at 
a  wild,  lonely  spot  upon  the  river  bank  to  load  on 
wood,  a  large  lot  of  which  stood  neatly  piled  up 
close  to  the  river  for  the  use  of  steamers.  Such 
delays  as  these  gave  opportunities  for  charming 
strolls  along  the  wooded  shore.  Crissy  and  Leoline 
never  tired  of  the  sweet  wild  flowers,  the  tinted 
pebbles  and  shells  about  the  river's  edge.  So  off 
they  started,  Mrs.  Burton  and  Durand  following 
slowly  behind.  After  quite  a  ramble  they  found,  on 
their  return,  that  a  large  portion  of  the  wood  had 
been  loaded  on.  As  Crissy  passed  near  Captain 
Glockner  she  heard  him  say  to  Burton,  in  a  low 
tone,  accompanied  by  a  peculiar  smile,  "  I'll  leave 
my  card  on  the  balance  of  the  wood-pile,  and  much 
good  may  it  do  to  them  !  "  Just  then  Crissy  heard 
the  sound  of  stifled  laughter,  and,  turning,  found 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  107 

that  it  emanated  from  the  boys  who  had  been  put- 
ting on  the  wood;  they  all  seemed  looking  in  a 
particular  direction.  Crissy  looked,  too;  certainly 
an  odd  figure  met  her  gaze — an  old  man,  very  tall, 
rather  stooped  and  out  of  all  proportion  —  lank. 
He  had  on  a  calico  shirt  of  a  gorgeous  pattern,  his 
pants,  very  much  patched,  in  colors  mostly  far  from 
the  original,  appeared  to  be  held  in  place  by  a  pair 
of  suspenders  made  of  the  material  called  bed-tick- 
ing; the  old  straw  hat  he  wore  was  simply  immense; 
underneath  its  brim  looked  forth  a  pair  of  sharp, 
inquisitive  gray  eyes;  a  mat  of  snow  white  hair  and 
beard  made  a  strong  contrast  to  his  deeply  sun- 
browned  face.  The  old  man  waved  his  hand  in 
a  friendly  way  as  he  approached.  Burton  stepped 
forward  to  meet  him.  Crissy,  at  a  meaning  glance 
from  Leoline,  lingered  near  enough  to  hear  the 
conversation  that  followed. 

"  Wai,  I  swan  !  "  said  the  old  man,  as  he  grasped 
Burton's  hand,  shaking  it  warmly;  "  I'm  right  glad 
to  see  ye,  stranger;  had  a  durned  long  walk  to  git 
here.  I  hearn  tell  so  much  about  this  here  boat 
that  I  'lowed  I'd  feel  more  satisfider  ef  I  could 
see  her;  and  there  she  is!"  he  exclaimed,  shad- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hand  to  take  a  better  look 
at  the  boat.  "  Wai,  by  gosh,  she's  a  fine  un ! 
Rakes  in  the  tin  right  lively  I  reckon  ?  "  This 
with  an  inquiring  look  at  Burton.  The  latter,  with 
ill-concealed  amusement  in  his  tone,  answered  that 
they  had  been  doing  a  pretty  fair  business  so  far. 


108  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

The  old  man  surveyed  the  boat  again  with 
thoughtful  admiration.  "  I'm  in  this  here  line 
myself,"  he  said.  "  Got  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  on  the 
road  in  a  tent;  we're  a  takin'  in  about  all  the  small 
towns  and  villages  on  the  root.  My  darter's  a 
right  peart  gal;  the  notion  o'  doin'  the  thing  was 
hern.  She  sez  to  me,  '  Dad,  there's  money  in  it 
ef  you'll  jest  hump  yerself  and  git  the  show  a  mov- 
in'. '" 

Burton  asked  how  it  was  paying  him. 

"  Wai,  stranger,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  we 
hev  our  ups  and  downs;  sometimes  biz  is  lively  and 
baked  beans  is  plenty;  sometimes  we  strike  a  place 
where  the  poor  ornery  critters  is  so  low  down  that 
they  hain't  no  stummick  for  moral  plays;  but  the 
wust  trouble  we've  had  so  fur  is  with  the  goats." 

"  The  goats  !  "  exclaimed  Burton. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man;  "  them  pesky  goats  is 
allus  into  something  or  nuther.  Ye  see,  the  idea 
was  my  gal's;  she  sez  to  me,  '  Dad,  we  must  hev 
some  live  critters  in  the  play  to  make  it  more  takin' 
like ' ;  she  'lowed  that  it  ort  ter  be  dorgs,  but  it 
takes  sech  a  heap  tu  feed  them  big  dorgs.  So  we 
calkilated  that  goats  would  do  jest  as  well.  My 
darter  sez,  '  All  we  hev  to  do,  dad,  is  just  turn  'em 
out  to  pastur  and  hev  no  expense  whatsomever.' 
So  the  first  night  arter  the  play  we  turned  'em  out 
for  a  few  hours  to  pastur,  and  ef  ye'll  believe  me, 
stranger,  they  pastured  on  a  whole  clothes  line  full 
of  clothes.  When  we  went  to  look  arter  the  crit- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  109 

ters  there  they  was,  a  chawin'  on  the  last  of  the 
linen!  Yu  bet  we  had  tu  dust  out  of  that  pretty 
lively.  The  durned  things  hev  been  into  mischeef 
on  an'  off  ever  since." 

Burton  laughed,  and  asked  the  old  man  if  he'd 
like  to  take  a  look  over  the  boat.  The  stran-ger 
assented  gladly.  Leoline  and  Crissy  followed  them 
aboard  with  smiling  eyes ;  the  old  man  expressed 
warm  admiration  for  the  interior  arrangements  of 
the  boat,  so  different,  he  averred,  from  traveling  in 
a  tent;  no  wading  through  mud  after  the  rain 
storms,  no  loading  into  wagons  and  unloading 
again.  As  he  talked  thus,  a  female  voice  suddenly 
interposed,  "  Now,  dad,  you  jest  shet  up  your  head 
and  tote  back  with  me!  " 

The  peart  girl  alluded  to  was  at  his  elbow,  a  large, 
strongly-built  woman,  with  a  freckled,  good-natured 
face.  Despite  her  admonition  to  her  "  dad,"  the  girl 
cast  a  look  of  intense  interest  about  her.  Crissy, 
interpreting  the  look,  said  she  would  be  pleased  to 
show  her  about  the  boat.  A  number  of  the  company 
clustered  near  the  old  man,  listening  to  his  amus- 
ing descriptions  of  tent  life;  the  warning  whistle 
soon  sounded,  however,  to  show  that  the  boat  was 
about  to  start,  and  the  strangers  bade  them  a  hasty 
adieu. 

At  a  number  of  their  stopping  places  Burton 
and  his  family  were  treated  with  great  kindness  by 
some  of  the  more  prominent  residents  of  the 
places.  In  many  cases  he  and  the  family  had  been 


HO  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

invited  to  such  pleasant  socialities  as  taking  dinner 
or  tea  with  these  kind -hearted  people.  As  the 
greatest  attention  was  bestowed  upon  the  Topsy 
and  Eva  of  the  play,  Mrs.  Burton  frequently 
excused  herself  and  husband,  allowing  the  girl  and 
child  to  sometimes  enjoy  themselves  for  an  after- 
noon this  way.  Crissy  never  forgot  one  of  these 
delightful  afternoons,  when  a  genial,  stout,  old 
farmer,  called  by  the  people  around  him  "Judge" 
— though  whether  he  was  a  judge  or  not  Crissy 
never  found  out — came  to  the  boat  in  a  comfort- 
able light  buggy,  and  helping  the  girls  into  it 
drove  them  a  number  of  miles  out  of  town  "to 
visit  with  his  folks  to  the  farm."  The  ride  was  in 
itself  a  delight  beyond  compare,  the  road  some- 
times winding  in  between  great  oaks  and  partially 
cleared  woodland  where  wild  birds  called  and 
whistled  continually,  then  coming  suddenly  out 
upon  some  high  bluff  overhanging  the  river  whose 
broad  bosom  was  dotted  here  by  many  islands ; 
then  when  they  reached  the  large  farm  house,  with 
its  strip  of  smooth  grass  down  to  the  road  side,  its 
garden  blazing  with  old-fashioned  flowers,  its  well 
sweep,  the  stacks  standing  near  it,  and  the  many 
sounds  from  poultry,  pigeons,  cattle  and  horses, 
the  girls  beamed  with  pleasure.  Out  and  out 
country  life  was  something  new  to  them.  Then  out 
ran  a  dear  old  white-headed  lady  to  meet  them, 
and  two  young  girls,  and  a  black-eyed  young  man, 
the  very  image  of  the  old  judge  grown  young 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 1 1 

again,  and  they  all  seemed  so  glad  to  see  them 
and  hoped  that  they  didn't  feel  the  drive  too  long 
— the  very  idea  of  such  an  ecstatic  drive  being  too 
long — and  hoped  they  had  good  appetites,  for 
dinner  was  all  ready.  Then  the  old  lady  said, 
"Was  this  the  little  Eva  they  had  all  cried  over 
the  night  before?  She  would  have  to  kiss  them 
all  'round  now  to  make  up  for  those  tears ; — and 
here  was  Topsy,  too!  Dear  me!  to  think  of  her 
blacking  her  face  and  arms  and  acting  it  all  out 
like  that!" 

Then  the  young  girls  took  them  to  a  little  room 
with  a  white  curtained  window,  where  they  could 
wash  the  dust  from  their  faces  and  hands.  This 
room  was  full  of  jugs  and  bowls  and  glasses,  filled 
with  the  most  beautiful  wild  flowers  and  ferns. 
The  child  and  Crissy  ran  from  one  bowl  to  another 
smelling  and  admiring  them  till  the  girls  said  they 
"  must  really  come  and  eat  their  dinner  now,  for 
mother  was  calling  them." 

What  a  dinner  that  was,  with  the  genial  old 
judge  asking  a  blessing  upon  its  abundance,  and 
the  young  man  helping  them  so  liberally  with 
those  big  brown  hands  of  his,  with  the  white 
headed  mother  smiling  over  everything !  There 
was  such  an  atmosphere  of  kindness  in  all  they 
said  and  did,  that  Crissy  felt  as  if  through  some 
mistake  she  was  getting  a  short  vacation  in  Heaven 
ahead  of  time.  After  dinner  the  girls  took  them 
through  the  orchard ;  such  an  orchard  it  was  too ! 


H2  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

with  the  apples  turning  bright  red  cheeks  toward 
them  as  if  to  say,  "  Eat  me ;  you  know  you  can't 
resist  me!"  with  the  crooke_d  old  apple  trees 
spreading  out  such  loving  wealth  of  branches  over 
the  kind  earth  beneath  them  ;  and  then  the  big 
barn  ;  was  there  ever  such  a  delightful  place  as 
that!  with  its  sweet  smelling  hay,  its  nice  stalls  for 
the  horses,  and  a  large  swing,  where  the  girls 
insisted  on  swinging  Crissy  and  Leoline.  Then  the 
fun  of  searching  in  queer  nooks  and  corners  with 
the  girls  for  eggs  which  some  refractory  hens  would 
hide  away  instead  of  putting  them  in  the  orthodox 
places  prepared  for  them!  But  lovely  pleasures 
end  too  quickly.  It  was  time  to  go  back  to  the 
dingy  old  boat ;  the  tiresome  routine  of  evening 
work.  Then  the  family  clustered  around  them  for 
good-bye.  They  kissed  and  praised  Leoline,  they 
twined  her  golden  ringlets  'round  their  fingers 
and  thought  her  the  most  talented  child  on  earth  ; 
then  the  old  lady  took  her  in  her  arms  and  wished 
her  all  happiness  in  her  journeyings ;  then  they 
loaded  them  down  with  fruit  and  flowers,  and 
watched  them  out  of  sight,  waving  their  handker- 
chiefs as  the  last  turn  of  the  road  hid  the  depart- 
ing ones  from  view. 

With  the  exception  of  that  private  source  of 
anxiety  understood  between  Mrs.  Burton  and 
George,  things  had  gone  well  so  far.  As  might 
have  been  anticipated  with  a  man  of  Burton's  pro- 
clivities the  turning  point  was  not  far  off.  Burton 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 1 3 

could  not  stand  prosperity ;  when  that  sun  shone 
at  all  brightly  on  him  the  snow  of  his  resolutions 
melted  very  fast.  When  difficulty  made  close  atten- 
tion and  strenuous  effort  necessary,  he  would  put 
his  whole  mind  and  body  to  the  task,  abstaining 
from  liquor  entirely  for  the  time  being.  When 
Burton  began  to  drink  again  the  pilot  was  not 
slow  to  follow  his  example.  "Any  excuse  is  better 
than  none."  The  pilot  was  getting  rather 
oppressed  by  his  sense  of  moral  rectitude  in 
having  kept  sober  so  long ;  the  captain,  too,  had  a 
leaning  in  the  same  direction,  only  he  did  his 
drinking,  as  he  did  everything  else,  in  a  gloomy 
and  self-contained  manner. 

Durand  noticed  these  things  with  a  scornful 
lifting  of  his  eyebrows,  a  sneer  of  his  full  lips. 
Drink  had  no  fascination  for  him ;  he  counted  his 
vices  as  being  of  a  more  genteel  description. 

This  man  was  traveling  with  these  theatricals 
under  an  assumed  name — all  actors,  he  said  to 
himself,  have  a  nom  de  plume,  why  not  he?  The 
study  of  the  people  around  him  roused  all  the 
cynic  in  his  nature.  From  the  stately  Clara,  whose 
debased  inwardness  he  had  fathomed  the  first 
instant  he  saw  and  talked  with  her — how  soon 
depravity  recognizes  its  companions  —  to  the 
drunken  talent  who,  as  he  essayed  to  instruct  and 
control  them,  was  himself  controlled  by  the  more 
potent  power  of  alcohol,  down  to  the  good-natured 
cook,  Durand  had  learned  them  all.  In  one  thing, 


H4  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

even  with  his  capacity  for  understanding  wicked- 
ness, he  deceived  himself.  He  thought  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton not  as  good  as  she  really  was.  He  could  not 
understand  why  she  placed  herself  in  such  a  posi- 
tion toward  him  to  save  her  own  child  from  his 
society.  It  would  seem  that  most  mothers  in  such 
a  case  would  appeal  to  the  duty  and  good  sense  of 
the  girl  herself;  it  was  not  because  Crissy  was  not 
a  thoroughly  good  girl;  she  was  innocent  as  an 
angel  in  sexual  matters — of  that  he  felt  convinced. 

An  accident  revealed  to  him  the  fact  that  Crissy 
was  not  Mrs.  Burton's  own  daughter.  He  had  often 
noticed  with  surprise  that  Crissy  bore  no  resem- 
blance whatever  to  the  rest  of  her  family;  even  her 
voice,  with  the  sweet  fullness  of  those  English 
tones  derived  from  her  own  father  and  mother, 
sounded  different  from  the  elongated  yet  slightly 
nasal  utterance  of  Burton  and  his  wife.  The  deli- 
cate shyness  of  Crissy's  manner  was  altogether 
unlike  anything  he  ever  met  before  among  profes- 
sionals. George  was  the  only  one  who  knew  that 
Crissy  was  not  Burton's  child.  George,  for  motives 
of  his  own,  was  the  last  one  in  the  world  to  impart 
this  information  to  Durand. 

One  day  as  little  Leoline  sat  on  the  deck  beside 
her  mother,  looking  at  the  people  thronging  near 
the  gangway  of  the  steamer — -long  before  the  even- 
ing performance  many  would  come  down  to  have 
a  look  at  the  "  show  boat,"  as  they  called  it— Leo- 
line  caught  her  mother  by  the  arm  and  said,  in  a 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR,  1 1 5 

shrill  voice  of  childish  excitement,  "Look  there, 
mamma,  at  that  girl;  she's  got  a  bonnet  on  just 
like  the  one  Crissy  wore  when  she  first  came  to  us!" 

"  Hush,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Burton,  as  turning 
her  head  she  saw  Durand  regarding  her  steadfastly. 
It  was  too  late  however;  all  flashed  on  him  at  once. 
This  was  the  explanation  of  Crissy's  dissimilarity  to 
the  others.  An  intention,  which  up  to  this  time 
had  stirred  but  faintly  in  him,  began  to  shape 
itself.  Now  he  understood  better  Mrs.  Burton's 
attitude  toward  himself;  he  saw  that  she  was  really 
afraid  to  say  anything  to  the  girl.  There  had  been 
nothing  in  his  actions  she  could  have  spoken 
about;  he  was  quite  sure  she  did  not  know  how 
often  he  saw  the  girl  alone. 

Durand  had  spent  his  life  up  to  this  time  on  the 
agreeable  principle — as  he  thought  —  of  never 
denying  himself  anything  he  desired.  The  son  of 
a  rich  man,  brought  up  by  an  indulgent  mother- 
that  is,  indulgent  in  most  things  —  he  had  gone 
through  school  and  college  in  a  manner  which, 
considering  his  unbridled  license  in  some  respects, 
reflected  credit  on  his  ingenuity  for  escaping  con- 
sequences. Durand's  mother,  a  lady  of  education 
and  worldly  refinement,  married  at  an  early  age  a 
man  who  was  coarse,  uneducated  —  self  made,  they 
termed  him  —  but  enormously  rich.  A  few  years 
of  married  life  proved  to  her  the  impossibility  of 
ever  assimilating  with  such  a  man;  she  was  a  proud 
woman — proud  of  her  family,  her  culture,  her  dis- 


Il6  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

tinction  as  a  social  leader;  but  though  she  wrap- 
ped her  mantle  of  pride  very  closely  about  her,  she 
found  it  cold  covering.  In  the  meantime  a  son 
was  born  to  her;  on  him  she  lavished  the  pent  up 
ardor  of  her  soul,  — cold  and  stern  to  all  the  world 
beside,  to  this  boy  she  was  the  very  fire  of 
love.  But  the  woman  was  worldly  wise;  the  evils 
which  later  cropped  out  in  the  boy  lay  at  the  root 
of  her  own  being.  He  was  denied  nothing  which 
did  not  militate  against  the  tenets  of  that  world  — 
that  exclusive  world  of  the  upper  ten  which  was 
her  only  deity  —  to  which  in  the  privacy  of  the 
secret  closet  of  her  thoughts  she  yielded  up  her 
orisons.  She  made  him  understand  that  she  did 
not  object  to  a  little  wildness  in  his  youth;  it  was, 
in  fact,  quite  the  proper  thing  in  society  for  a 
young  man  to  "  sow  his  wild  oats."  But  one  thing 
she  and  society  would  never  forgive  in  him  —  that 
thing  was  a  mesalliance. 

Fancy  what  life  is  to  a  man  who  has  no  neces- 
sity for  exertion,  mental  or  otherwise ;  who  is 
brought  up  to  lean  upon  his  fathers  fortune ;  who 
has  no  higher  aim  before  him  than  to  shine  in  a 
society  formed,  for  the  most  part,  by  a  combination 
of  moneyed  people, — a  combination  made  for  dis- 
play of  wealth  suddenly  acquired,  whose  possessors 
do  not  realize  the  tremendous  powers  for  regenera- 
tion, or  the  following  of  all  the  nobler  instincts 
which  it  places  within  their  reach.  We  speak  of 
the  society  of  some  of  our  western  cities  as  it  was 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 1 7 

thirty-six  years  ago.  In  the  present  instance,  wit- 
ness one  of  the  results  of  that  training.  Durand 
had  lived  a  great  deal  in  the  short  space  of  his  life; 
he  had  lived  fast,  he  felt  old  already.  A  certain 
splendid  butterfly  —  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
erratic  women  then  on  the  stage  —  had  lured  him 
to  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  It  had  been  a 
long  chase,  ending  on  Durand's  part  with  deep 
disgust.  Bad  as  he  was  himself,  he  felt,  when  he 
grasped  this  butterfly  and  saw  the  gaudy  color  of 
her  wings  rub  off  upon  his  hand,  that  there  was  a 
kind,  an  extent,  of  wickedness  in  some  humans 
which  would  turn  Satan  himself  to  a  hermit. 
Durand  had  an  odd  poetic  element  even  in  his 
sins, —  that  he  had  chased  this  flying  sail  only  to 
find  a  cargo  of  death!  Phew! 

He  was  drifting  aimlessly  about  the  river  when 
he  heard  of  Burton's  attempt  to  form  a  company. 
He  was  hundreds  of  miles  from  home ;  no  one 
would  ever  hear  of  it  ;  it  would  be  an  amusement 
to  become  an  actor  himself  for  a  time,  hence  his 
entrance  to  that  boat  world  where  at  last  he  found 
what  real  love  can  be.  Durand  knew  it  now.  No 
woman  had  ever  inspired  in  him  such  feelings  as 
those  which  assailed  him  inCrissy's  presence;  never 
in  his  life  before  had  he  despised  himself  so  much, 
never  so  longed  for  some  sweet  land  where  people 
might  follow  the  best  impulse  of  their  souls  and 
mesalliances  were  never  thought  of.  A  mutiny  be- 
gan in  his  restless  heart  telling  him  that  if  he  could 


1 1 8  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

not  have  the  girl  he  loved  without  dishonoring  her, 
he  must  fly.  Nothing  except  his  own  will  held 
him  there,  and  yet — and  yet. 

As  these  struggles  progressed  within  him  came 
the  knowledge  that  Crissy  was  not  Burton's  own 
child,  and  the  surety,  harder  still  to  combat,  that 
Crissy  loved  him — Durand. 

From  the  instant  that  Burton  began  to  drink 
again,  everything  went  wrong,  not  only  in  the  cap- 
tain and  pilot  following  his  example,  but  the  child 
sickened.  She  was  not  naturally  strong;  this  wan- 
dering life,  at  an  age  when  most  little  girls  are  ten- 
derly cared  in  point  of  sleep,  food  and  play,  told  on 
her.  It  began,  as  most  sickness  does,  insidiously  ;  a 
trifling  lassitude,  a  little  fever,  an  unusual  petu- 
lance ;  the  mother's  anxiety  noted  this  and  prepared 
simple  remedies  at  once.  One  evening  in  the  very 
part  of  the  play  where  Eva's  longest  scene  occurs, 
the  child  broke  down  entirely,  and  weeping,  clung 
to  her  mother,  sobbing  out,  "Oh,  mamma,  I  can't; 
I  really  can't  go  on!" 

"My  darling!"  pleaded  her  mother,  "  try,  do 
try,  it  is  impossible  to  get  through  the  play  with- 
out you;  do  it  for  mamma's  sake!" 

"  Oh!  "  cried  poor  Leoline,  "my  head  hurts  so, 
how  can  I  speak  out  loud?  " 

The  united  entreaties  of  the  mother,  Crissy  and 
George  persuaded  her  to  make  the  effort ;  but  when 
her  scenes  were  over,  and  they  put  the  trembling, 
feverish  child  to  bed,  their  ears  rang  with  the  piti- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  119 

ful  cries  of  her  delirium.  For  a  week  she  was  too 
ill  for  them  to  even  think  of  having  her  act. 

At  this  point  in  their  affairs  some  of  the  mus- 
ical young  men  of  the  company,  growing  discon- 
tented with  the  way  Burton  was  running  things — if 
truth  must  be  told,  also  exceedingly  jealous  of  the 
influence  Durand  exercised  in  the  dramatic  coun- 
sels,— took  French  leave.  This,  with  the  loss  of  both 
Leoline  and  Clara  in  the  cast,  made  it  imper- 
ative to  stage  some  light  comedies  requiring  a  small 
number  of  dramatis  persona.  Mrs.  .Burton  and 
Durand  looked  up  plays  and  got  them  rehearsed  in 
shape,  as  Burton  was  drinking  to  such  an  extent 
that  they  could  not  depend  upon  his  assistance  at 
all.  The  captain,  from  the  time  that  he  himself 
began  to  imbibe  too  freely,  declared  an  open  and 
cordial  hating  for  Durand,  saying  that  it  was  no 
wonder  business  was  falling  off  when  they  staged 
such  things  and  put  that  d — d  jackanapes, — 
meaning  Durand — into  the  leading  roles. 

They  were  now  nearing  two  large  cities  ;  these 
cities  were  directly  across  the  river  from  each  other, 
with  a  fine  bridge  spanning  the  stream  between 
them.  Crissy  was  on  the  hurricane  deck  looking  at 
the  beautiful  shores  as  they  steamed  past,  when  she 
heard  voices  in  angry  altercation.  It  was  the  cap- 
tain and  pilot. 

"  Tell  you  what,  Matt,  I'm  captain  of  this  boat, 
and  I  will ^Q  it!"  exclaimed  Glockner. 

"  You're  the  pilot,  but  you  needn't  think  you're 


120  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

God  Almighty;  you  just  obey  orders,  and  stop 
right  there,"  pointing  to  the  town  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  river. 

"Very  well!"  responded  the  pilot  angrily,  "you 
try  it  and  see  what'll  come  of  it ;  you  must  be  in  a 
precious  hurry  to  git  tied  up  ;  a  pretty  fellow  you  be 
to  want  to  run  yourself  right  into  the  lion's  jaws; 
but  I'll  do  it!"  he  continued,  with  a  quick  turn  of 
the  wheel.  "  Nobody  shall  say  as  how  Matt  would- 
n't take  his  orders." 

Both  men  glared  at  each  other  fiercely,  and 
Crissy  wondered  what  it  was  all  about.  After  the 
evening  performance,  which  was  rather  slimly  at- 
tended, Crissy  became  enlightened.  The  engineer 
was  getting  up  steam,  busy  preparations  for  depart- 
ure sounded  through  the  old  steamer,  when  loud 
voices  and  oaths  from  the  gang  plank  —  not  yet 
drawn  in — met  Crissy's  ears. 

She  and  Mrs.  Burton  leaned  over  the  railing  to 
hear  what  was  going  on  below.  A  number  of  po- 
licemen's stars  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  lanterns. 
Glockner's  and  Burton's  voices  could  be  heard  in 
tones  of  angry  remonstrance. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  no  use,"  said  one  of  the  minions 
of  the  law,  sullenly;  "you  don't  pull  out,  Captain, 
till  you  settle  this  amount.  You'd  better  give  your 
orders  to  stop  firing  up,  for  we've  got  possession 
and  we're  going  to  hold  it." 

After  some  more  discussion  the  engineer  was 
informed  that  they  would  not  start  that  night,  that 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  I  2  I 

all  hands  might  as  well  turn  in  for  a  little  sleep. 
Then  the  angry  party  at  the  gang  plank  could  be 
heard  tramping  up  the  stairs.  Presently  they 
assembled  in  the  cabin,  where  a  council  of  war  was 
held  until  late  in  the  night,  or  rather  far  into  the 
morning  hours.  Mrs.  Burton  and  Crissy  retired 
with  all  speed,  when  they  heard  the  ascending 
footsteps.  Lying  in  their  berths,  they  could  dis- 
tinguish through  the  thin  partition  of  the  state 
room  the  words  of  the  belligerents. 

After  some  time  they  gathered  from  these  the 
fact  that  the  boat  was  deeply  in  debt,  as  loud  impre- 
cations upon  "  her  "  testified.  "  She  "  was  frequently 
alluded  to  in  disparaging  remarks,  such  as  term- 
ing her  an  "old  hulk  ; "  wonders  as  to  her  value  for 
firewood,  etc.  Perhaps  the  rapid  passage,  from 
hand  to  hand,  of  various  case  bottles,  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  length  of  the  session  held, 
also  the  increasing  jocularity  of  the  disparage- 
ments heaped  upon  the  unfortunate  boat.  The 
captain  was  told,  with  appropriate  oaths,  that  he 
had  been  a  smart  one  to  evade  the  hand  of  the  law 
up  to  this  time. 

Leoline,  in  her  sick,  weak  condition,  clung  to 
Crissy  in  terror  when  she  heard  the  rough  voices. 
The  girl  soothed  her  into  something  like  rest. 
At  length  a  compromise  was  effected  between 
the  opposing  factions ;  some  of  the  movable  appur- 
tenances of  the  boat  would  be  yielded  to  the 
law.  At  a  certain  time  the  next  morning,  they 


122  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

would  take  these  from  her,  and  she  would  be 
allowed  to  go  her  way. 

As  this  went  on  in  the  cabin,  Mrs.  Burton,  ly- 
ing in  her  berth  below  the  girls,  was  thinking  very 
seriously  indeed  over  Crissy. 

About  the  time  of  Clara's  escapade,  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton had  been  on  the  point  of  telling  Crissy  that 
now  would  be  a  good  chance  to  make  the  long 
promised  visit  to  her  mother.  Crissy,  in  answer- 
ing the  letter  which  contained  that  providential  en- 
closure, told  her  mother  that  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton could  spare  her  she  would  go  home.  But, 
somehow,  weeks  of  Durand's  society  had  lessened 
her  desire  to  see  her  mother  immediately,  so  she 
said  nothing  more  to  Mrs.  Burton  concerning  it. 
Burton's  excesses,  the  crippling  of  the  company 
which  shortly  followed,  now  rendered  it  almost  out 
of  the  question  for  her  to  go.  Mrs.  Burton  made 
up  her  mind,  however,  that  she  would  send  Crissy 
home  if  circumstances  should  in  any  way  justify 
the  anxiety  she  felt  about  the  girl.  She  fell  to 
pondering  on  the  strangeness  of  the  power  Durand 
had  acquired;  even  in  her  own  case,  all  had  gone 
farther  than  she  intended.  It  had  not  been  part 
of  her  original  plan  to  make  Durand's  apparent 
devotion  to  herself  so  conspicuous.  She  felt  her 
anxiety  redoubled  by  the  very  fact  that  he  had 
played  into  her  hands  so  readily.  Thinking  it 
over,  she  was  sure  that  he  had  some  strong  motive 
for  doing  so.  She  had  no  commonplace  vanity 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR,  123 

to  mislead  her;  she  knew  very  well  that  in  his  at- 
tentions to  her  he  was  playing  a  part,  just  as  he 
was  playing  in  whatever  he  had  been  cast  for. 

Bad  as  she  knew  men  to  be,  and  bad  as  she  sus- 
pected him  to  be,  no  idea  of  his  actual  intentions 
crossed  her  mind.  There  was  a  lawlessness  in  him 
she  knew  nothing  about.  As  she  thought,  the 
contrast  between  George  and  Durand  came  to  her 
vividly.  George  the  faithful,  honest,  plodding, 
but  true  -  hearted  man ;  why  was  he  so  unappre- 
ciated? For  all  George's  kind  offices  to  every- 
body seemed  to  be  taken  as  a  matter  of  course; 
even  Burton  accepted  his  faithfulness  with  a  con- 
temptuous good  nature.  She  need  not  have  won- 
dered over  the  plain  fact  seen  all  about  us,  that 
unobtrusive  love  and  duty,  performing  its  tasks 
without  parade  or  claim  for  recognition,  is  seldom 
noticed.  George  received  no  commendation  from 
the  little  world  around  him,  because  he  was  of  that 
world;  he  belonged  to  it  by  sympathy,  by  caste,  by 
the  kindly  subservience  of  a  desire  to  please  it. 
But  Durand  was  a  type  unknown  to  them, — whence 
he  came,  what  he  was,  or  who  he  was,  they  could 
not  tell.  The  unexplainable  has  a  peculiar  fasci- 
nation for  common  minds.  There  is  apt  to  be 
more  real  beauty  in  some  ordinary  field  or  garder 
flower,  than  in  the  loveliest  orchid,  yet  the  meed  of 
beauty  is  always  accorded  the  blossom  of  the 
strange  plant  with  its  multitude  of  ugly  roots  feed- 
ing on  air.  And  why?  Because  it  is  to  us  a  living 


124  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

embodiment  of  the  element  called  mysterious. 
We  are  too  much  inclined  to  measure  the  worth  of 
a  thing  oy  its  inscrutability. 

Crissy,  too,  was  beset  by  many  restless  thoughts. 
Here  was  their  river  experience  leading  them  back 
to  the  same  old  paths  filled  by  dank  weeds  of  debt 
and  drunkenness.  From  what  she  had  overheard  in 
the  cabin  she  knew  that  they  had  passed  the  town 
of  their  summer  misfortunes,  in  the  dark  of  the 
morning  hours,  to  escape  the  boat  and  its  belong- 
ings being  seized  for  debt.  All  their  undertakings 
so  far  had  led  them  to  this  disreputable  wall  of 
shame.  Was  this  the  life  to  fit  a  young  girl  to 
make  her  mark,  to  even  make  a  decent  living  as  an 
actress?  Crissy 's  strong  practical  sense  immediate- 
ly responded — No!  Yet  how  could  she  leave  Mrs. 
Burton  and  the  child  just  now?  Even  as  she 
thought,  through  the  darkness,  like  a  palpable 
presence,  a  graceful  figure  leaned  caressingly  toward 
her  ;  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  an 
expression  she  knew  too  well.  She  sighed.  Poor 
child,  the  chain  that  held  her  looked  like  flowers, 
but  it  was  really  iron.  In  a  short  time  she  would 
know  how  hard  it  was  to  break  it. 

The  next  morning  they  heard  heavy  footsteps 
on  the  hurricane  deck ;  some  men  appeared  to  be 
carrying  something  very  weighty. 

"What  can  they  be  taking?"  asked  Mrs.  Burton. 

Crissy  ran  out ;  returning  in  a  few  minutes,  she 
cried,  "  It's  the  large  bell!" 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  125 

"  Oh,  dear!"  exclaimed  Leoline,  "  are  they  real- 
ly taking  our  beautiful  big  bell?" 

It  was  too  true.  The  occupants  of  the  boat  looked 
sadly  forth  as  the  immense  bell,  whose  musical 
clangor  had  so  often  called  their  audiences  togeth- 
er, or  sounded  their  proximity  to  some  fine  town, 
was  borne  away.  To  the  women  it  was  almost  a  sac- 
rilege that  this  bell  should  be  taken.  What  would 
a  boat  be  without  her  bell?  It  was  like  parting 
man  and  wife  ;  but  law  was  inexorable  and  claimed 
its  due. 

As  they  departed  from  this  beautiful  city  gloom 
sat  upon  the  brows  of  all ;  even  George,  generally 
so  light  hearted,  looked  depressed.  Crissy,  on  the 
upper  deck  with  Leoline — who,  though  still  too 
weak  to  act,  was  slowly  recovering — could  note  that 
the  expression  of  the  pilot's  eyes,  as  he  glanced  as- 
kance at  the  captain,  was  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  told 
you  so." 

The  weather  was  delightful ;  the  quickly  round- 
ing weeks  had  brought  them  to  October,  Along  the 
river  bank  autumn  hung  her  gorgeous  banners;  the 
flora  of  this  advanced  season,  in  which  the  colors 
of  purple  and  yellow  predominated,  shone  in  glow- 
ing patches  on  every  open  glade.  The  crisp  fresh- 
ness of  the  air  was  full  of  vitality;  the  sun  had  lost 
his  burning  heat,  but  the  earth  still  had  its  chalice 
filled  to  overflowing  with  the  welcome  warmth  of 
his  golden  bounty.  The  scenery  on  this  portion 
of  the  river  was  wild  and  grand.  The  boat  some- 


126  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

times  steamed  between  solid  walls  of  rock,  stand- 
ing up  gray  and  defiant,  hundreds  of  feet  above  it. 
Little  streams  of  water,  crystal  clear,  ice  cold,  burst 
from  the  rock  in  places  and  trickled  over  mossy 
stones  into  the  river  far  below;  the  stream  rolled 
on  in  solemn  grandeur  tinged  with  the  color  of  the 
surrounding  rock.  This  was  to  be  a  long  distance 
for  them  without  stopping,  as  the  Captain  and  Bur- 
ton had  decided  not  to  pause  in  the  journeying 
till  the  evening  of  the  next  day.  Crissy,  whose 
love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  was  an  intense  pas- 
sion, could  scarce  absent  herself  from  the  deck  long 
enough  to  eat.  Many  of  them,  not  having  to  act 
that  night,  sat  about  playing  cards  or  reading,  yet 
there  was  a  brooding  anxiety  in  the  air.  The  care- 
less cheerfulness  of  the  earlier  weeks  they  passed 
together  had  evaporated.  To  be  sure  there  was  rea- 
son for  this,  especially  with  the  men,  who  mostly 
knew  what  the  navigation  of  the  Mississippi  was. 
Tt  could  hardly  be  a  matter  pleasant  to  reflect  upon 
that  they  had  a  drunken  captain  aloft,  with  a 
drunken  pilot  at  the  wheel,  and  as  capsheaf  an  in- 
ebriated stage  manager  and  proprietor  snoring  off 
some  of  his  stupor  in  the  cabin. 

Durand  was  as  usual  reading  Shakespeare  with 
Mrs.  Burton  ;  George  was  busily  constructing  a 
toy  boat  for  Leoline.  It  was  late  afternoon,  getting 
dusk  rapidly  now,  for  the  days  were  shortening. 
Much  to  Crissy's  regret,  the  grand,  rocky  shores 
were  passed  ;  they  had  reached  a  portion  of  the 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  127 

river  very  broad,  and  studded  with  islands  over- 
grown by  willow  trees.  The  rest  were  at  supper, 
George  came  to  her  to  call  her  in.  "  I  wonder 
why  it  is,"  she  said,  "  that  the  packets  all  seem  to 
be  taking  a  different  side  of  the  river  from  us?  " 

George  looked,  and  sure  enough,  over  in  the 
misty  light  on  the  farther  side  of  the  river,  could 
be  seen  a  large  sidewheel  steamer  painted  white, 
steaming  northward,  in  their  own  direction. 

"  Run  in  to  supper,  Crissy,"  said  George,  anx- 
iously. "  I'll  go  up  and  speak  to  Matt,"  meaning 
the  pilot. 

Crissy  was  scarcely  seated  at  table  before  the 
boat  seemed,  in  an  instant — quicker  than  thought 
—  to  strike  something;  a  sudden  vibration  ran 
through  her,  then  she  stood  stock  still. 

Every  one  rushed  on  deck.  A  look  downward 
disclosed  the  condition  of  affairs,  they  were  wedged 
on  a  sandbar.  The  water,  beautifully  clear  in  the 
northern  Mississippi,  revealed  their  position  at 
once.  The  utter  carelessness  of  their  pilot  was  a 
fact  beyond  denial  ;  angry  oaths  resounded  on  all 
sides.  "  Can't  be  helped  by  talking  about  it," 
remarked  the  Captain,  philosophically  ;  "we'd  bet- 
ter go  in  and  finish  supper,  then  see  what  can  be 
done." 

The  surprise  and  annoyance  of  this  event 
sobered  Burton  and  the  Captain.  As  the  supper 
progressed  many  plans  for  their  release  from  this 
predicament  came  under  discussion.  Absurd  as  it 


128  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

may  seem,  they  concluded  to  dig  her  out.  As  she 
seemed  to  be  wedged  forward,  with  her  stern  in 
much  deeper  water,  they  thought  that  possibly  the 
force  with  which  the  great  sternwheel  might  be 
revolved  would  aid  materially  ;  so  by  the  waning 
light  a  dozen  men,  armed  with  spades  and  shovels, 
could  be  seen  at  the  hopeless  work,  standing  nearly 
to  the  waist  in  water,  digging  away  at  the  sand, 
which  almost  immediately  washed  in  again.  It 
was  soon  demonstrated  that  this  would  never 
answer.  The  boys,  accustomed  to  the  river,  being 
good  swimmers,  one  of  them  took  a  large  rope  and 
swam  with  it  to  a  certain  point  considered  favora- 
ble, where  he  fastened  the  rope  firmly  around  a 
strong  tree  ;  then  the  work  on  the  windlass  began. 
"  Boys,"  said  the  Captain,  gloomily,  "  you  may  as 
well  understand  that  this  is  likely  to  be  an  all- 
night  job,  and  that  every  man  Jack  of  you  will 
have  to  take  hold." 

Crissy,  who,  on  the  deck  above,  was  noting 
everything  with  an  interest  not  untinctured  with 
anxiety,  heard  the  Captain's  words.  The  men 
instantly  proffered  their  services.  Crissy's  glance 
involuntarily  sought  a  certain  one  among  them  ; 
he  was  not  there.  Every  man  on  the  boat,  except 
him,  was  on  hand  for  this  summons.  She  sat 
alone  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  night  and  watched 
the  work  going  on  actively  below  ;  there  was  no 
moon,  the  stars  gleamed  frostily  overhead  —  the 
nights  in  this  northern  latitude  had  lately  grown 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  129 

colder  —  the  different  colored  lamps  were  lighted 
over  the  boat,  according  to  custom.  Above  Crissy's 
head  a  red  one  was  suspended  ;  its  light  seemed  to 
make  wavering  pools  of  blood  on  the  floor  of  the 
deck.  How  well  she  remembered  that  afterwards. 
So  long  as  she  lived,  the  recollection  of  this  night 
never  paled  in  her  memory.  As  she  sat  thus, 
absorbed  in  a  reverie,  which  a  troubling  vision  of 
her  mother  seemed  constantly  to  interrupt,  she 
heard  hurrying  footsteps  near  her.  George's  voice 
sounded  sharply  from  the  darkness.  "  Where  is 
Durand?  "  he  asked;  "every  man  except  him  has 
gone  to  work  ;  we  need  every  soul  if  we're  ever  to 
get  out  of  this." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is,"  said  Crissy,  with 
such  a  ring  of  genuine  surprise  in  her  voice,  that 
George,  though  he  looked  suspiciously  at  her 
where  she  sat  in  the  red  light,  had  to  be  con- 
vinced. 

He  ran  down  the  stairs  to  the  front.  In  a  few 
minutes  more  Burton  came  from  the  rear,  just  as 
George  had  come,  as  if  from  a  search  of  the  boat. 
He  propounded  the  same  question  to  Crissy.  "  I 
don't  know,"  said  the  girl,  feeling  an  unaccounta- 
ble peevishness,  "  I  have  not  seen  him." 

Burton,  too,  glanced  sharply  at  her,  then  said 
angrily,  "  He's  a  confounded  scoundrel  and  sneak, 
hiding  away  when  every  other  man  is  working  like 
a  horse!  " 

The  girl  made  no  reply.     Burton,  too,  disap- 


13°  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

peared  down  the  front  stairway.  Crissy  felt  the 
hot  blood  surging  over  her  face  ;  why  should  they 
come  to  her  to  know  where  Durand  was?  She  felt 
irritated  and  singularly  ashamed. 

Thinking  of  him  brought,  by  close  association 
of  ideas,  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Burton.  The  girl  rose, 
and  pacing  the  deck  in  the  darkness,  looked 
through  to  the  lighted  cabin  or  green  room  at  the 
farther  end,  the  wide  doors  of  the  audience  room 
standing  open,  the  curtain  rolled  up,  and  the  large 
doors  of  the  cabin  back  of  the  stage,  also  open, 
gave  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  lighted  interior 
of  the  cabin  where  Mrs.  Burton  sat  at  a  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  quietly  reading;  little  Leoline 
was  in  bed.  Mrs.  Burton  must  have  supposed  Durand 
was  working  with  the  other  men;  hence  was  indif- 
ferent as  to  Crissy's  whereabouts. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  tall  figure  glided  to 
Crissy's  side,  an  arm  was  slipped  about  her  waist, 
she  was  quietly  and  silently  conducted  to  a  chair 
standing  rather  back  of  the  red  light,  yet  giving  to 
those  above  an  excellent  view  of  the  busy  men 
below.  Durand,  seating  himself  in  another  chair 
close  beside  her,  remained  silently  contemplative 
of  the  creaking  windlass.  Crissy  felt  a  trembling 
surprise;  it  thrilled  her  with  a  strange  pleasure  that 
he  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her,  but  yet  he  had  no 
right  to  be  there.  She,  true  heart,  would  never 
have  disregarded  the  call  to  duty,  no  matter  how 
hard  or  hopeless.  The  sense  of  this  became  at  last 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  I31 

paramount ;  it  emboldened  her  to  speak.  "  Why 
are  you  not  helping  them?"  she  asked,  with  a 
quiver  in  her  voice.  The  answer  came  in  a  tone 
low  as  her  own,  "  Because  I  would  rather  be 
with  you." 

The  girl  felt  a  bewildered  embarrassment;  he 
was  such  a  number  of  years  older  than  herself  that 
it  was  not  the  thing  to  tell  him  that  he  really  ought 
to  do  his  share  ;  but  she  would  respect  him  more, 
she  would  think  him  more  manly,  if  he  was  push- 
ing away  at  one  of  those  big  bars,  like  the  spokes 
of  an  immense  wheel,  as  the  rest  did. 

He  must  have  divined  her  thought,  for  after  a 
long  pause  he  said,  "They  will  be  at  it  all  night; 
in  a  couple  of  hours  one  of  them  will  fall  out  dead 
tired,  and  I'll  take  his  place."  This  seemed 
logical.  Crissy  drew  her  shawl  more  closely 
around  her  and  said  no  more.  She  yielded  herself 
to  the  peculiar  contentment  which  always  came 
over  her  when  with  Durand.  He  moved  his  chair 
still  nearer,  the  encroaching  arm  stole  softly  'round 
her ;  sometimes  as  she  turned  her  head  the  red 
light  falling  full  upon  her  face  would  show  her 
eyes  large  and  limpid,  looking  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  childlike  trustfulness.  He  sat  in  deep 
shadow.  An  hour  passed  thus  without  another 
word,  then  he  rose  softly,  and  walking  noiselessly 
over  the  dark  deck  looked  through  to  the  cabin 
where  Mrs.  Burton  quietly  read  on.  He  resumed 
his  silent  companionship. 


I32  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Was  it  Crissy's  good  angel  or  Durand's  familiar 
devil  who  prompted  what  came  next?  Who  can 
tell?  He  inclined  his  head  more  closely  toward 
her,  and  in  a  voice  —  always  rich  and  harmonious 
— which  sounded  now  like  honey  dropping  through 
the  listening  darkness,  said,  "  Do  you  love  me, 
Crissy?"  No  answer.  It  seemed  to  Crissy  as  if 
the  throb  of  her  heart  had  transformed  itself  into 
the  very  air  about  her;  the  stars  were  listening  and 
the  red  light  was  a  sentient  thing.  Again  the 
voice,  with  a  gentle  insistence  in  its  tones,  "  Do 
you  love  me,  little  Crissy?" 

To  answer  was  dreadful,  for  she  could  only 
answer  true.  Her  lips  quivered,  and  after  a 
struggle  she  faintly  articulated,  "  Yes."  The  shel- 
tering arm  drew  more  closely  'round  her;  not 
another  word  was  said.  What  might  have  been  an 
hour  slipped  by.  He  rose  reluctantly;  she  rose  too; 
he  drew  her  to  the  top  of  the  stairway.  "  I  must 
help  them  now,"  he  murmured  slowly ;  "  kiss  me 
just  once  before  I  go."  Crissy  could  not  refuse 
him,  her  will  seemed  bound  in  a  narcotic  slumber; 
that  kiss  was  the  first  and  the  last. 

She  stood  under  the  red  lamp  and  watched  him. 
She  saw  him  step  softly  from  the  shadows,  and  tak- 
ing the  youngest  and  most  wearied  looking  man 
from  the  windlass,  put  himself,  apparently  un- 
noticed, in  his  place.  The  men  were  working 
now  in  sullen  silence.  They  seemed  to  feel  the 
hopelessness  in  their  efforts  ;  the  lively  talk  with 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  133 

which  they  began  work  had  ceased  entirely. 
Crissy  wondered  that  he  did  not  relieve  Burton, 
so  much  older  and  more  unused  to  labor  than  the 
rest. 

Durand  alone  knew  why  he  did  not.  He 
glanced  up  once  or  twice  at  Crissy  as  she  stood 
there.  In  a  short  time  she  walked  along  the 
guards  to  the  door  of  her  state  room.  She  found, 
to  her  relief,  that  Mrs.  Burton  had  not  yet  bolted 
it,  and  she  was  thus  able  to  undress  and  creep  in 
beside  the  sleeping  Leoline.  She  felt  that  to  speak 
to  anyone  that  night  would  be  impossible.  How 
glad  she  was  that  Mrs.  Burton  found  her  book  so 
interesting. 

Crissy  could  not  sleep  —  a  novel  experience  with 
her  —  her  mind  tossed  restlessly  upon  the  billows 
of  a  troubled  sea;  a  spar  or  plank  to  cling  to  must 
be  somewhere  !  Then  memory  —  a  strange  store- 
house where  the  dust  lies  thick  upon  so  many  un- 
used and  unwanted  things — opened  its  door  to  let  the 
light  fall  full  upon  some  simple  words  spoken  by  an 
anxious  mother  nearly  a  year  before,  —  forgotten 
long,  yet  closely  treasured  they  stood  out  in  the 
darkness  like  printed  words  before  the  retina  of 
Crissy's  vision,  "  Remember,  that  any  man  who  be- 
haves in  a  loverlike  manner  to  you  without  asking 
you  to  be  his  wife,  insults  and  would  degrade  you  ; 
if  that  happens  and  your  heart  fails  you,  recall  your 
mother's  words,  then  run  away  from  him." 

Why  had  she  not  remembered  this  before?    But 


:34  VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR, 

yet  until  this  very  night,  what  need?  Now  he  had 
asked  her  if  she  loved  him,  but  he  had  not  said 
that  he  loved  her.  He  always  sought  her  unob- 
served ;  he  had  never  uttered  such  an  idea  as  mar- 
riage. Ah  !  the  shame  of  it !  love,  anger,  pride, 
held  a  conflict  in  that  earnest  heart  which  seemed 
like  to  burst  it.  "Then  run  away  from  him."  Yes, 
yes,  she  would.  How  wise  her  mother  was  to  know 
all  this  beforehand  ;  had  her  mother  been  near  her 
she  might  never  have  grown  to  love  him  so.  She 
could  have  told  her  mother  everything  ;  she  could 
never,  never  speak  of  it  to  anyone  else  !  The  girl 
writhed  in  a  misery  of  emotions  never  dreamed  of 
by  the  man  who  caused  it.  He  thought  incessantly 
of  her  as  he  worked  the  windlass.  Her  love  for  him, 
confessed  by  herself,  was  now  proved  beyond  a 
peradventure.  He  would  not  stand  in  the  way  of 
fate;  it  was  destiny  —  he  said  to  himself  —  which 
threw  this  pure  affection  into  his  arms.  He  could 
not  marry  her  to  be  sure,  but  to  be  with  her  always 
—  that  is  until  she  wearied  him,  if  that  might  ever 
be  —  would  do  him  good.  He  needed  something 
good  in  his  life.;  but  how  to  manage  it?  He  must 
pretend  to  marry  her  ;  nothing  short  of  that  would 
do  with  such  a  girl.  How  to  get  her  from  these 
Burtons?  He  felt  sure  she  would  not  leave  them 
clandestinely ;  he  knew  the  river  well  and  many 
unscrupulous  men  along  shore  ;  some  dark  night 
one  of  his  friends  would  have  a  row  boat  close 
to  the  old  steamer,  then  on  some  pretext  he  would 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  135 

get  the  girl  to  the  lower  deck,  a  little  sudden  muf- 
fling of  her  face  and  voice,  and  getting  her  rapidly 
into  the  boat.  When  out  of  hearing  of  the  steamer, 
he  would  explain  to  her  his  love  and  devotion,  — 
his  friend,  the  minister,  right  there  in  the  very  skiff 
with  them  —  they  would  go  ashore  at  the  first  land- 
ing, get  married,  take  a  packet  down  river  as 
soon  as  possible,  then  away  from  pursuit  and  into 
the  sunny  south.  When  day  was  dawning  the 
creaking  of  the  windlass  ceased,  the  boat  quivered, 
the  joyful  thud,  thud,  of  the  mighty  heart  of  the 
engine  was  heard  as  they  slowly  got  under  way. 
Crissy  rose  from  her  sleepless  couch  heavy  eyed, 
unrefreshed  ;  the  child  and  woman  slept  on.  The 
deck  was  deserted.  The  men,  fagged  out  by  unusual 
exertion,  had  thrown  themselves  into  their  bunks 
for  much  needed  sleep  ;  the  captain,  pilot,  engineer 
and  fireman  were  at  their  posts.  The  gayly  painted 
woods  showed  dim  and  dreamlike  through  the 
clinging  mists  in  the  gray  light.  A  tinge  of  pink 
was  spreading  in  the  east,  laying  a  carpet  for  the 
coming  of  the  royal  sun  ;  soft  winds  were  rustling 
through  the  weeds  and  rushes  of  the  shores  ;  it  was 
not  morning  yet  —  it  was  only  the  ghost  of  it. 

Crissy  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  railing, 
wet  with  the  night  dews,  and  looked  sadly  at  the 
passing  shores ;  turning  her  head  at  a  slight  sound 
she  saw  Durand  sitting  in  one  of  the  chairs  where 
they  had  sat  the  night  before.  She  walked  slowly 
toward  him  ;  he  patted  his  knee  with  a  motion 


I36  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

which  invited  her  to  a  seat  upon  it.  The  girl 
blushed  deeply,  then  quietly  sat  down  in  the  chair 
beside  him. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Durand. 

Crissy  did  not  reply. 

"Why  not?"  he  repeated. 

The  girl  turned  her  steady  eyes  upon  him  and 
answered,  "  Because  my  mother  would  not  wish 
me  to." 

Durand  bit  his  lip,  half  in  anger,  half  amuse- 
ment. This  girl-child  talking  to  him  in  such  a 
way  !  He  knew  very  well  it  was  her  own  mother 
she  alluded  to. 

He  turned  a  searching  glance  upon  her.  He 
couldn't  divine  just  what  it  was,  but  there  was  a 
firmness  in  her  face  he  had  never  noticed  there  be- 
fore. He  felt  a  vague,  undefined  uneasiness.  They 
sat  together  a  long  time,  silent  as  the  night  before. 
Crissy's  determination  never  wavered,  even  with 
her  beloved  so  near.  She  would  know  later  that 
when  we  pluck  the  flower  of  love  out  by  the  roots 
and  throw  it  from  us,  it  is  long  before  order  is  re- 
stored to  the  torn  and  empty  space  it  leaves. 

Breakfast  was  late  that  morning ;  the  company 
straggled  into  it  very  wearily.  Crissy  was  watch- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Burton 
alone.  She  was  anxious  to  do  so  before  rehearsal, 
which  would  not  be  till  noon  that  day  ;  but  wher- 
ever Mrs.  Burton  was  Durand  was  sure  to  be.  He 
had  many  suggestions  to  make  as  to  what  they 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  13? 

would  play  that  evening — the  next ;  in  fact,  for 
two  weeks  to  come.  All  this  time  he  knew  that  the 
very  next  evening,  if  things  went  well — the  second 
evening  at  farthest — he  would  carry  out  his  plot 
as  to  Crissy. 

About  ten  o'clock  Crissy  stepped  softly  to  the 
table,  piled  with  play  books  and  written  parts, 
where  Durand  and  Mrs.  Burton  were  deeply  en- 
gaged. "  It  would  be  better,  "  said  Crissy,  "  to  play 
a  couple  of  one-act  comedies  when  we  are  so  short 
of  people  ;  there  are  some  here  well  suited  for  you 
and  Mr.  Durand.  The  truth  is,  my  head  aches  so 
dreadfully  it  is  not  likely  I  can  play  to-night." 

Mrs.  Burton  looked  up  with  quick  alarm  ;  the  girl 
certainly  appeared  ill  ;  she  was  unusually  pale, 
with  dark  circles  under  her  eyes.  She  gazed  at 
Mrs.  Burton  steadily.  This  lady  was  gifted  with 
perspicacity  ;  she  rose  immediately.  "  Child,"  she 
said,  anxiously,  "  you  are  looking  badly ;  come 
inside  at  once,  you  shall  lie  down  and  I'll  bathe 
your  head.  We'll  manage  so  that  you'll  not  play 
to-night." 

When  they  were  inside  the  state  room,  beyond 
the  possibility  of  being  overheard,  Mrs.  Burton 
turned  a  comprehensive  glance  upon  the  girl. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Just  this,"  said  Crissy,  "  I  am  going  to  my 
mother  as  soon  as  I  can  get  there;  at  our  first  land- 
ing place  I'll  get  off,  take  a  packet  down  river  to  a 
place  where  I  can  take  the  train  direct  for  Chicago. 


138  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

I  wanted  to  tell  you  this  before  the  cast  was  made 
out." 

Mrs.  Burton  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief ;  she  had 
faith  in  Crissy  right  along ;  that  faith  was  now  veri- 
fied. These  women  understood  each  other,  though 
little  was  said. 

"  Very  well,  you  shall  go  if  you  want  to,  but  it's 
not  likely  you  can  start  before  to-morrow  afternoon. 
We  will  prepare  in  any  case  by  leaving  you  out  of 
the  cast  to-night.  One  thing,  however,  we  had  better 
not  mention  it — your  going,  I  mean.  What  with 
being  so  short-handed,  Leoline  unfit  yet  to  act,  Mr. 
Burton,  too,  would  interpose  strong  objections  to 
your  leaving  just  now  ;  not,"  she  added  quickly, 
"  that  I  blame  you  for  doing  it  ;  you  are  doing  what 
you  feel  to  be  right,  yet  we  had  best  keep  our  own 
counsel.  I'll  speak  to  George  that  he  may  quietly 
find  out  where  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  get  off. 
He'll  never  tell,  I'll  warrant,  till  we  give  him  leave." 

She  was  correct;  though  George's  astonishment 
was  unbounded  when  he  knew  Crissy's  determina- 
tion to  go  home  at  once,  he  took  good  care  to  say 
not  a  word.  He  assured  the  girl  that  she  would  not 
be  able  to  start  until  the  next  afternoon,  but  he 
would  see  to  everything. 

Now  came  the  revulsion  of  feeling  which  fol- 
lows determined  action.  Crissy  was  wretched.  She 
had  emptied  the  cup  of  her  happiness.  Leaf  by  leaf 
she  had  torn  to  bits  the  daisy  of  her  hopes;  and  what 
now?  A  long  blankness  stretched  out  before  her 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  139 

mental  vision.  The  word  duty  could  not  brighten 
it;  even  the  thought  of  her  mother's  love  grew  dim 
beside  this  overpowering  anguish.  She  had  deliber- 
ately hastened  to  do  what  she  knew  must  be  done ; 
and  now  she  was  leaving  him!  She  went  to  bed  for 
that  afternoon,  but  the  ailment  was  heartache  not 
headache.  You  will  say  it  was  very  strange  that 
this  girl,  whose  instincts  were  for  good,  should  love 
so  bad  a  man.  It  is  not  strange  ;  look  about  you 
and  see  continually  the  serpent  charming  the  dove. 
This  thing  is  always  going  on  ;  it  is  to  be  feared  it 
will  be,  as  long  as  this  world  shall  last.  Each  soul 
must  struggle  from  the  quagmire  as  best  it  may, 
the  quagmire  is  sure  to  be  somewhere  in  its  path. 
Durand  saw  no  more  of  his  young  friend  that  day  or 
night.  He  did  not  wish  to  see  her.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  talk  with  her  again  until  he  held  her 
firmly  in  his  grasp.  One  must  use  care  in  snaring 
such  a  timid  bird.  Something  in  the  look  of  his 
bird  convinced  him  she  had  been  alarmed. 

That  night  they  played  in  a  small  place ;  the 
next  forenoon  they  would  reach  a  larger  one  where 
they  intended  provisioning  up,  but  would  not  play, 
as  a  large  circus  was  doing  a  big  business  there,  so 
Burton  had  learned  from  a  passing  packet  bound 
down  the  river.  After  an  hour  or  so  at  this  place, 
they  would  steam  on  to  a  smart  little  town,  arriv- 
ing there  in  the  afternoon,  and  play  for  it  that 
night. 

Durand,    after    hearing    these    plans,    rapidly 


M°  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

sketched  out  his  own.  He  knew  a  fellow  in  that 
place  who  would  sell  his  soul  for  whisky.  All 
right,  then,  this  chap  would  have  the  row  boat 
handy  for  him  ;  first  he  thought  near  midnight ; 
but  no,  let  him  keep  his  boat  in  the  shadow,  con- 
veniently near,  from  the  time  it  fell  dark.  A  cer- 
tain whistle  should  be  the  signal  between  them. 
He  might  be  able  to  spirit  Crissy  off  earlier  in  the 
night,  and  so  have  a  better  chance  for  catching  a 
packet.  All  this  was  somewhat  risky,  but  he  had 
run  risks  before  now.  Crissy  slept  well  this  night, 
the  last  one  she  would  ever  pass  on  the  old  boat. 
Exhaustion  from  mental  struggle  brought  repose, 
she  was  too  young  and  healthy  to  lose  much  rest. 
When  she  woke  in  the  early  morning,  she  felt  a 
strange  heaviness, — what  was  this  sensation  of 
doom  hanging  over  her?  Then  she  remembered, 
and  the  flood  gates  of  her  sorrow  opened.  She 
dressed,  but  not  to  seek  the  deck  as  usual.  Dur- 
ing the  day  she  packed  a  satchel  full  of  necessary 
clothing.  Even  Leoline  was  not  told  of  her  pro- 
jected departure.  George  ascertained  at  the  circus 
town,  that  about  dusk  a  packet  bound  down  the 
river  would  touch  at  the  town  where  they  played 
that  night.  He  would  transfer  Crissy  and  her 
satchel  from  their  boat  to  the  other,  arrange  for 
her  transportation,  and  bid  her  good-bye.  About 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon  they  arrived  at  their 
destination.  Soon  as  the  steamer  was  made  fast 
Durand  was  ashore,  not  as  one  who  hastens,  but 


A  YEAR,  141 

with  the  graceful  carelessness  peculiarly  his  own. 
As  he  sauntered  nonchalantly  toward  the  town,  the 
Captain  and  George,  standing  near  each  other,  at 
the  upper  railings,  noticed  him.  The  Captain's 
dark  face  grew  darker  with  intense  dislike. 
"Look  at  that  man!  Who  is  he,  I'd  like  to  know, 
that  he  must  foot  it  with  a  manner  like  a — like  a 
President.  I'd  like  to  know  why  he  should  be  al- 
lowed to  make  so  free  with  other  men's  wives  and 
daughters?  By  God,  if  it  was  my  wife  instead  of 
Burton's,  I'd  have  his  heart's  blood!" 

"Hush,  hush!"  muttered  George,  for,  looking 
up,  he  saw  Burton  within  hearing  distance.  Bur- 
ton turned  and  walked  away,  but  not  before  the 
Captain  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face.  Its  expres- 
sion was  frightful. 

"D — d  if  he  didn't  hear  me!"  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  hoarse  laugh. 

This  trifling  incident  worried  George;  he  knew 
what  demons  drink  made  of  these  men.  Even  this 
early  in  the  day,  they  had  been  imbibing  pretty 
freely.  Somehow  a  feeling  of  gladness  that  Crissy 
would  soon  be  out  of  this  whirlpool,  came  over  him. 
The  very  soul  was  gone  from  life  without  her  pres- 
ence ;  but  it  would  be  delightful  to  feel  that  she 
was  safe.  He  repaired  to  the  cabin  and  asked 
Crissy  if  she  had  prepared  all  for  her  journey. 
She  told  him  yes.  He  told  Mrs.  Burton  that  she 
had  been  wise  in  saying  nothing  of  Crissy's  inten- 
tions, for  he  feared,  as  matters  were  going  now, 


142  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

that  Burton  and  the  Captain  were  well  on  the  ram- 
page. 

Mrs.  Burton  sighed.  "George,"  she  said,  "the 
one  who  will  miss  Crissy  most  of  all  will  be  Leo- 
line."  George  had  some  doubts  of  this.  "But 
you  will  have  to  take  Crissy's  place  to  her.  You 
and  Crissy  have  gone  through  so  many  griefs  and 
troubles  with  us,  that  it  seems  as  if  you  really  must 
belong  to  us  in  very  truth." 

George  assured  her  that  he  would  do  his  best 
to  fill  Crissy's  vacant  place.  The  short  day  soon 
drew  to  a  close.  In  the  dusk  George  and  Crissy 
quietly  slipped  ashore,  and  then  to  the  big  packet 
with  her  blaze  of  lights,  her  whistling,  confusion, 
and  noise  of  many  voices. 

"God  bless  you!"  murmured  the  young  man. 
"  I  hope  you'll  not  have  any  bother  on  your 
journey;  be  sure  and  write  to  us  the  minute  you 
reach  home." 

The  packet  remained  such  a  few  moments  at 
these  points,  that  as  George  left  the  levee  the 
boat  was  already  in  midstream  and  snorting  her 
way  down  river.  Bending  his  steps  toward  the  old 
sternwheel  steamer  he  saw  with  careless  eyes  a 
man  in  a  small  boat,  rowing  slowly  along  shore  in 
that  direction.  Everything  was  in  readiness  for 
the  evening  performance ;  the  audience  room 
lighted,  the  curtain  down,  the  players  preparing 
in  their  dressing  rooms.  Durand's  costume  needed 
little  changing  from  its  usual  gentlemanly  neatness, 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  143 

as  it  was  a  modern  dress  the  play  called  for.  He 
was  stepping  into  the  green  room  when  he  heard 
Burton's  voice  in  angry  expostulation.  He  drew 
back  from  sight  and  listened.  "It's  a  d  —  d 
shame,"  said  Burton,  passionately,  "to  let  the  girl 
go  just  now;  sneaking  off  too,  as  if  she  was  run- 
ning away  from  us.  By  Heaven,  I  don't  believe 
she's  gone ! " 

"Don't  talk  so  loudly,"  urged  Mrs.  Burton, 
"what  I  tell  you  is  true.  Crissy  left  for  home  on 
the  Northern  Belle.  By  this  time,  she's  well  down 
the  river.  I  must  hurry  now  with  my  dressing ; 
we  can  talk  it  over  by  and  by.  Don't  let  Leoline 
know  yet  that  she's  gone,  for  the  child  will  have  a 
fit  of  crying  over  it."  With  that  a  door  was  loudly 
closed  as  Burton  muttered  a  fiery  imprecation. 

Durand  walked  dizzily  through  the  open  doors 
of  the  green  room,  and  stepping  around  the  set 
scene,  stood  on  the  dim  stage  behind  the  curtain. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  there,  convulsed  with  rage 
—  despair  —  he  scarce  knew  what  —  such  an  earth- 
quake of  passion  seemed  to  rend  him.  His  plans 
foiled  at  the  last  minute!  How  could  he  for  an 
instant  have  anticipated  this  ?  That  woman!  He 
hated  her!  She  had  brought  this  about!  He 
crossed  the  stage  and  stood  in  the  wings  where  it 
was  darker  ;  he  felt  as  a  hurt  creature  does,  who 
wants  to  hide  itself.  First  music  was  beginning  ; 
they  played  a  lively  waltz  ;  he  never  forgot  that 
<iir —  .a  heavy  step  was  on  the  stage.  Burton  stag- 


144  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

gered  as  if  by  instinct  to  the  very  spot  where 
Durand  was  standing. 

"Scoundrel!  "  muttered  Burton,  "you  are  the 
meanest  villain  who  ever  went  unhanged!  Let 
them  tell  me  what  they  like,  you  caused  Crissy  to 
leave  us!  Not  satisfied  with  that,  you  would  seduce 
my  wife!  " 

"  Your  wife!  "  exclaimed  Durand,  in  a  voice 
deep  with  passion.  "  She  is  a  drab  !  I  wouldn't 
give  the  snap  of  my  finger  for  her!  " 

A  little  fairy -like  figure  darted  upon  the  empty 
stage  and  began  an  airy  pirouetting  to  the  music 
of  the  waltz. 

"Speak  like  that  again!"  cried  Burton,  wild 
with  drink  and  jealousy,  "  dare  say  that  word 
again  and  I'll  /£/'// you  if  you  had  ten  lives." 

Leoline  stopped  dancing  as  she  heard  her 
father's  voice. 

"You  would!"  exclaimed  another  voice,  so 
muffled  with  rage  that  she  did  not  recognize  it. 
The  men  clinched ;  they  fell  upon  the  floor 
together  ;  a  knife  gleamed  bright  and  fierce  through 
the  dim  light ;  a  long  groan.  Durand  dashed  past 
her,  his  hands  dripping  blood. 

"  Papa!  "  screamed  the  child,  with  a  shriek  of 
horror  so  piercing  that  it  resounded  high  through 
the  music ;  a  curdling  cry,  which  stopped  the 
musicians  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had  been  the  crack 
of  doom.  On  the  lower  deck  a  shrill  whistle 
sounded  ;  in  an  instant  a  man  dropped,  unper- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  145 

ceived  in  the  darkness,  from  the  old  steamer  into 
a  row  boat  ;  his  companion  rowed  him  swiftly 
down  river,  into  hiding  from  the  hands  of  justice. 
Crissy  was  sitting  on  the  deck  of  the  Northern 
Belle,  looking  pensively  at  the  stars.  Homeward 
bound  after  nearly  a  year  of  strange  wanderings, 
of  vicissitudes  unanticipated  by  her  mother  or  her- 
self, in  those  fairy  dreams  fashioned  by  their 
hopes.  How  different  was  this  home-coming  from 
what  she  had  supposed  it  would  be  in  the  early 
weeks  of  her  sojourning,  before  the  roselight  faded 
from  her  sky,  and  the  shadows  of  black  reality 
darkened  everything.  She  was  to  have  returned 
glowing  with  honors,  confident  with  success  —  best 
of  all,  able  to  give  the  dear  mother  assistance. 
Now  she  returned  bereft  of  every  hope  connecting 
her  with  the  stage  ;  even  worse,  actually  compelled 
to  run  away  from  it  like  a  coward  or  a  thief,  lest  in 
her  youth  and  weakness  even  greater  ills  than  dis- 
appointment and  a  wasted  year  should  overtake 
her.  Crissy  was  mistaken  when  she  thought  of 
that  year  as  wasted  ;  she  had  learned  what  was  more 
to  her  than  many  years  of  ordinary  school  life  ;  she 
had  gauged  her  own  capacities  ;  she  had,  by  the 
help  of  God  and  her  mother,  conquered  her  first 
temptation.  That  this  brought  her  to  a  premature 
womanhood  cannot  be  denied,  but  the  soil  that 
nurtured  her  soul  from  earliest  infancy  was  wetted 
down  by  tears  of  sorrow.  There  is  nothing  more 
forcing  toward  maturity  than  grief.  Perhaps  the 


146  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

Higher  Power,  which  fashions  all,  knows  how 
necessary  this  nurture  is  for  some  souls. 

Crissy  had  a  long,  tiresome  journey  before  her, 
but  her  mind  was  so  inured  to  the  noise  and  rush 
of  travel  that  she  felt  little  or  no  trepidation  when 
she  found  herself  in  the  big  depot  on  the  lake 
front  of  Chicago.  She  glanced  about  with  pleas- 
ure. It  was  very  early  morning,  the  sky  was 
already  rosy  with  delight  over  the  coming  sun  ; 
the  lake,  a  blue  glory,  tossed  up  foamy  waves  along 
the  shore  ;  the  air  was  crisp  and  bracing  ;  clear, 
too,  not  darkened  by  smoke  as  now.  She  looked 
around  for  some  means  of  transportation  to  her 
mother's  new  home.  It  was  a  long  way  out  on 
Dearborn  street.  She  caught  sight  of  some  express 
wagons,  and  her  satchel  being  too  heavy  to  carry  a 
long  distance,  she  soon  arranged  with  an  express- 
man to  convey  herself  and  baggage  to  the  address 
she  gave.  Seated  beside  the  man  in  his  humble 
vehicle,  she  looked  comprehensively  on  all  sides 
as  they  jolted  along.  The  man,  one  of  unques- 
tionable Hibernian  origin,  glanced  kindly  at  the 
girl  as  they  drove  on. 

"  I'm  thinkin',  Miss,  ye'll  be  a  stranger  to  this 
city?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Crissy. 

He  pointed  out  to  her  some  interesting  build- 
ings and  streets.  He  talked  fluently,  even  enthu- 
siastically, when  he  described  the  past  and  possible 
future  of  the  city.  Crissy  listened  surprised ;  this 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 47 

was  such  an  exact  echo  of  George.  She  discovered 
later  that  this  was  the  ordinary  discourse  of  all 
people  who  had  taken  residence  in  this  city  by  the 
lake,  the  air  they  breathed  seemed  to  fill  them  with 
braggadocio. 

In  Dearborn  street  great  oak  trees  grew  shel- 
teringly  each  side ;  the  street  was  broad  and  clean, 
and  through  the  advancing  day  came  the  bustling 
hum  of  great  activity  ;  many  people  of  all  ages  hur- 
ried past  them  to  their  daily  toil.  Crissy  felt  great 
interest  in  this  city  destined  to  be  her  future  home. 
At  last  they  drew  up  in  front  of  a  little  cottage, 
where  her  companion,  after  helping  her  to  alight, 
left  her.  Crissy  saw  her  mother's  face  at  the  win- 
dow, she  gave  a  cry,  they  were  in  each  other's  arms 
in  a  minute.  Such  laughing  and  crying  as  fol- 
lowed !  such  questioning  and  such  answering ! 
such  kissing  and  such  hugging !  There  was  her 
father,  too,  "  quite  himself,"  beaming  on  her  with 
a  quiet  happiness.  "  Dear  father,"  cried  the  girl, 
"  I  never  want  to  go  away  from  you  again." 

The  children  crowded  around  with  expressions 
of  surprise  that  Crissy  had  grown  so  much  and 
had  long  dresses  on  now,  and  would  she  play  "  paper 
dolls"  with  them  when  they  came  home  from 
school?  When  her  father  started  to  his  work  and 
the  children  for  school,  Crissy  had  her  mother  to 
herself  once  more.  She  began  the  long  tale  of  her 
wanderings,  her  mishaps  and  disappointments.  At 
its  conclusion  her  mother  said  with  decision, "Now 


1 48  VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR, 

that  I  know  all  this,  I  could  never  be  satisfied  to 
let  you  go  on  with  such  a  life;  perhaps  this  last 
anxiety  which  hurried  you  home  to  me  was  for  the 
best.  There  is  no  telling  what  you  may  have  been 
saved  from  by  being  here." 

"Ah,  mother,"  said  Crissy,  sadly,  "I  only  found 
with  strangers  the  same  trouble  I  left  at  home. 
You  can  see  that  rum  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  our 
troubles ;  without  that  we  might  have  done  fairly 
well,  though  my  unfitness  for  the  profession  in 
many  respects  cannot  be  denied,  yet  I  might  learn 
to  be  a  humble  worker  and  fill  some  subordinate 
position  in  that  great  workshop  where  I  once  had 
the  madness  to  hope  I  might  shine  a  star ;  that  I 
am  lacking  in  the  attributes  essential  to  pro- 
nounced success  need  not  prevent  me  from  earn- 
ing a  living  on  the  stage." 

"But,"  urged  the  mother,  "it  would  be  better 
to  earn  a  living  at  something  where  an  ordinary 
amount  of  respect  would  be  vouchsafed  one ;  the 
worst  feature  of  all  you  have  told  me  is  the  insult 
which  dogs  members  of  the  profession  at  every 
turn.  To  be  continually  subjected  to  that,  would 
surely  lead  in  the  long  run  to  a  total  loss  of  self 
respect;  without  that  no  woman  can  be  safe." 

A  long  pause  of  anxious  silence  followed.  After 
a  time  Crissy  said,  "  You  are  right,  mother ;  what  I 
suffered  in  leaving  him,  shows  me  how  hard  it  is  to 
do  right  where  the  feelings  are  involved.  Oh! 
mother  dear,"  cried  the  girl,  sobbing  as  she  clung 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 49 

to  her  mother,  "without  the  thought  of  you  to  help 
me  what  could  I  have  done  ?  " 

"  Child,"  said  her  mother,  solemnly,  "  if  I  should 
die  this  moment,  it  would  seem  to  me  I  had  ac- 
complished a  great  work  in  having  been  permitted 
this  influence  for  good  with  you.  But,"  she  re- 
sumed, "let  us  return  to  the  main  point  at  issue; 
it  will  be  better  for  you  to  leave  the  stage,  and  do 
so  at  once." 

"You  are  right,"  answered  the  girl,  "and  if  'tis 
done  at  all,  'then  'twere  well  it  were  done  quickly.' 
It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  mother,  but  there  is  a 
singular  fascination  in  stage  life.  I  have  frequent- 
ly listened  to  middle-aged  persons  in  the  profes- 
sion talking  it  over  and  telling  how  many  they 
knew  who  made  efforts  to  leave  it,  but  invariably 
returned  to  it  again ;  and  you  see,"  concluded 
Crissy  with  a  sad  smile,  "once  accustomed  to  being 
a  vagabond,  every  month  makes  it  more  difficult  to 
return  to  the  humdrum  of  a  commonplace  occupa- 
tion." 

Thus  these  two  did  what  all  the  world  is  doing 
at  this  moment,  made  their  plans  for  the  morrow, 
unwitting  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  The  black 
shadow  of  that  event  which  immediately  followed 
Crissy's  departure  from  the  old  boat,  had  reached, 
was  about  to  touch  them,  for  flashed  along  the 
wires  came  this  message — 

Burton  murdered  by  Durand.  Leoline  dying.  Return  at 
once.  GEORGE. 


I  50  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

The  mother  and  daughter  never  thought  of  hesi- 
tation when  they  received  this  message.  To  their 
simple  notions  of  duty  the  voice  of  anguish  was 
imperative, — Crissy  must  return  at  once. 

There  are  some  people  who,  if  you  called  to 
them  from  the  bottomless  pit  to  throw  you  a  rope 
by  which  to  clamber  out,  would  only  peer  over  the 
edge  and  ask,  "  Is  this  any  concern  of  mine  ;  by 
what  right  do  you  make  this  request?" 

If  Crissy 's  homecoming  was  sad,  how  much 
more  so  was  that  other  journey  that  she  traveled 
now  in  the  blackness  of  the  shadow  of  death.  She 
was  enveloped  in  an  unexplainable  horror ;  the 
wording  of  the  telegram  offered  the  bare,  the  awful 
facts.  But  how  to  account  for  all  this?  That  she 
herself  could  have  been  made  the  pretext  for  the 
murder,  never  entered  her  imagination.  But  there 
was  the  telegram,  read  fifty  times  with  the  hope  of 
extracting  some  information  or  rather  explanation. 
Crissy  was  melancholy  enough  on  the  homeward 
journey,  under  those  conditions  of  mind  springing 
from  disappointed  love  and  buried  hopes,  but  now 
— the  object  of  that  love  a  murderer!  Oh,  how 
could  it  be?  Now  hope  was  dead  indeed.  Before 
the  arrival  of  this  message  it  had  been  shyly  bud- 
ding in  her  heart,  though  she  scarcely  knew  it,  but 
now — .  Thus  the  long  hours  of  travel,  filled  by 
distracting  thoughts,  wore  on. 

The  evening  of  the  next  day  found  her  at  her 
destination.  George,  pale  and  careworn,  was  at 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  1 5  I 

the  levee  to  meet  her  ;  at  sight  of  him  her  tears 
burst  forth  unrestrainedly.  "  Leoline,"  was  all 
that  she  could  utter.  George  looked  at  her  with 
solemn  eyes  dimmed  by  nights  of  watching. 

"  Going  fast,"  he  answered  in  a  low  tone. 

Crissy  noticed  nothing  around  her  ;  she  was  not 
aware  that  they  were  walking  very  rapidly  toward  a 
large  frame  house  standing  a  little  remote  from 
others  on  the  high  bluff.  In  a  few  moments  they 
stood  in  a  large,  low-ceilinged  room.  A  slim  figure 
ran  to  meet  them  ;  was  it  Mrs.  Burton  or  her  ghost 
—  that  hollow-eyed,  sunken-cheeked  phantom. 
Crissy  was  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh!"  cried  the  poor  woman,  "  If  you  had  not 
left  us,  Crissy,  this  would  never  have  happened." 

Strange  inconsistency  ;  she  who  had  been  so 
anxious  to  have  Crissy  go.  The  girl  never  heeded, 
for  a  voice  faint  and  childish  called  her.  There  on 
a  bed  lay  the  little  form  once  so  animate  with  life 
and  motion.  Disordered  on  the  pillow  lay  the 
golden  hair  which  had  been  Crissy's  pride. 

"  Darling  Crissy!"  murmured  the  child.  "  How 
glad  I  am  you  came.  I  was  so  sorry  to  think  that 
perhaps  I  couldn't  see  you  again  before  I  went." 
She  motioned  feebly  for  the  girl  to  sit  beside  her 
and  twined  her  thin  fingers  lovingly  through 
Crissy's. 

"  Perhaps, — "  said  Crissy,  trying  to  choke  down 
her  sobs,  "  perhaps,  dear,  you  may  not  go;  we  can't 
do  without  our  little  Eva,  can  we,  George?" 


152  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

The  child  turned  her  large  blue  eyes  quietly 
from  one  to  the  other,  then  answered,  with  a  quiver 
in  her  voice  :  "  But  I  must  go,  and  then — then  I 
shall  be  with  poor  papa;  you  will  be  good  to  mam- 
ma, both  of  you,  I  know  you  will." 

Choking  with  emotion,  they  could  make  no 
reply.  The  child,  weakened  by  speech,  fell  into 
an  uneasy  slumber.  Then,  removed  from  the  bed, 
George  recounted  to  the  girl  in  a  low  tone  the 
particulars  of  the  tragedy  immediately  succeeding 
her  departure.  The  child,  sole  witness  of  it, 
seemed  unable  to  recover  from  the  shock.  Of 
Durand  they  had  heard  not  a  word.  Burton  lived 
only  long  enough  to  say  that  he  forgave  his  mur- 
derer, but  maintained  to  the  last  that  Durand  was 
a  villain  who  had  deliberately  planned  to  seduce 
his  wife  and  Crissy. 

George  added  that  the  kindness  of  the  people  in 
this  lonely  river  town  was  something  extraordinary. 
They  had  given  the  woman  and  child  food,  shelter, 
nursing,  and  more  than  all,  the  warmest  sympathy. 
The  men  of  the  place  provided  decent  burial  to 
poor  Burton's  remains  in  the  desolate  graveyard 
on  the  green  bluff;  now  it  was  only  a  question  of 
a  few  hours  when  the  little  girl  would  be  placed 
beside  him. 

"Oh!  Crissy,"  concluded  George,  "if  you  had 
failed  to  come,  Mrs.  Burton  would  have  been  des- 
perate, for  Leoline  called  for  you  incessantly  in 
the  awful  delirium  which  followed  her  father's 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  153 

murder.  She  was  not  quiet  then  as  now;  now  the 
fire  of  her  little  frame  has  most  burned  out." 

"The  old  boat,"  asked  the  girl ;  "where  is  it?  " 

"Gone.  Burton  lived  about  an  hour.  The 
knife  penetrated  a  lung ;  and  as  soon  as  we  took 
his  remains  ashore,  the  captain  told  me  it  would 
be  best  for  him  to  '  sheer  off '  as  the  whole  affair 
might  be  looked  into,  and  make  some  unpleasant- 
ness for  him.  The  boat  started  northward,  and 
that  is  all  we  know  or  will  likely  ever  know  of 
her." 

In  the  early  watches  of  the  succeeding  morning, 
little  Leoline's  soul  departed ;  the  transition  was 
noiseless,  apparently  painless.  Toward  the  very 
last  she  grew  too  weak  for  speech,  but  looked  at 
them  all  with  fond  understanding  glances.  Under 
this  second  blow  it  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Burton's  for- 
titude must  yield  entirely,  but  action  was  impera- 
tive. After  that  golden  head  was  laid  beneath  the 
sod,  the  three  faced  each  other  and  said,  "  What 
next?"  George  took  the  lead  in  every  thing. 
He  told  them  that  with  winter  so  near,  it  would  be 
best  for  them  to  return  to  Chicago  as  soon  as  they 
could,  and  there  procure  employment  if  possible. 
He  and  Crissy  would  be  in  their  homes  and  that 
would  give  them  more  chance  to  assist  Mrs.  Burton. 

The  kind-hearted  people  of  the  river  town  got 
together  what  they  could  to  defray  the  traveling 
expenses  of  the  unfortunate  trio.  Then  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton went  alone  (George  and  Crissy  dared  not 


154  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

intrude  upon  that  solemn  leave-taking)  to  bid  a  last 
farewell  to  the  graves  of  her  beloved.  Below  the 
mighty  river  sang  its  sad  refrain,  the  gaily  colored 
trees  shook  red  and  yellow  leaves  upon  the  fresh 
turned  earth,  the  restless  wind  wandered  along  the 
lonely  bluff,  and  a  slim  figure  knelt  beside  the  spot 
henceforth  hallowed  in  memory,  though  no  stone 
or  slab  has  ever  marked  the  place  where  those  poor 
forms  are  lying. 

The  desolation  of  this  third  journey  over  the 
same  path  was  something  terrible  to  Crissy.  Since 
she  first  took  it  what  a  whirlwind  had  passed  and 
made  a  desert  place  of  the  once  smiling  prospect ! 
Mrs.  Burton  was  silent  with  the  stupor  of  grief. 
Crissy  was  silent  with  a  despair  which  in  the  young 
is  always  voiceless.  George  only  resembled  his  old 
self,  — quieter,  to  be  sure,  but  ever  kind,  thought- 
ful, and  even  cheerful.  As  they  neared  their  final 
stopping  place,  George  said  he  was  going  to  take 
Mrs.  Burton  right  home  to  his  mother.  Crissy 
gave  him  a  grateful  glance.  She  had  been  won- 
dering if  Mrs.  Burton  could  stand  the  noise  of  their 
little  domicile  with  the  children's  voices  all  about 
her.  George  said  that  as  he  lived  on  the  South 
Side,  Crissy  must  come  to  their  house  first.  Then, 
after,  he  could  take  her  home;  in  the  meantime, 
she  would  become  acquainted  with  his  mother  and 
sister. 

George  was  extraordinarily  anxious  for  Crissy  to 
know  all  his  family.  So  Crissy  went  with  them,  and 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  155 

was  introduced  to  the  very  dearest  old  white- 
headed  lady  with  engaging  manners  —  just  like 
George's, — and  the  sweetest  of  young  girls  whose 
dark  ringlets  fell  to  her  waist  in  lovely  profusion, 
whose  big  brown  eyes  gave  loving  though  shy 
welcome.  Then  George  took  Crissy  home,  and 
you  may  be  sure  Crissy's  mother  liked  him  at  once, 
even  though  his  hair  was  fiery  red,  and  his  form 
far  from  commanding ;  for  Mrs.  Trevanion's 
daughter  had  told  her  how  good  he  was,  and  al- 
ready she  appreciated  that  goodness  far  more  than 
Crissy  did. 

The  day  after  their  arrival  in  Chicago,  George 
was  out  looking  up  the  theatrical  people,  for  work 
must  be  secured.  Mrs.  Burton  declared  it  would 
make  her  sorrow  easier  to  bear  if  she  had  an  occu- 
pation, let  alone  the  positive  necessity  for  it. 

That  very  evening,  to  Crissy's  great  surprise, 
George  was  at  Trevanion's  house.  She  was  amazed 
to  hear  him  tell  her  mother  that  he  had  made  en- 
gagements already,  not  only  for  Mrs.  Burton  and 
himself,  but  for  Crissy  also. 

In  the  grief  and  anxiety  of  their  recent  conver- 
sations the  girl  never  thought  to  tell  him  about  her 
determination  to  leave  the  stage.  What  was  to  be 
done?  The  contract  was  signed.  George  protested 
that  he  blamed  himself  for  being  so  premature,  but 
really  he  had  been  pressed  for  immediate  accept- 
ance or  rejection  of  the  engagements  offered.  This 
was  the  fact.  They  discovered  later  that  this  man- 


156  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

agement  had  some  difficulty  to  secure  competent 
persons,  and  took  advantage  of  George's  too  evi- 
dent ignorance  of  their  standing. 

A  long  discussion  ensued,  Mrs.  Trevanion  at 
last  declaring  that  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Crissy's 
dramatic  career  must  continue  one  winter  longer, 
and  they — the  Trevanions — move  to  the  South 
Side  to  get  her  reasonably  near  what  George  laugh- 
ingly termed  "  the  shop." 

Crissy  acted  in  many  strange  places,  under  many 
peculiar  circumstances,  but  she  now  began  a  new 
and  decidedly  odd  experience.  The  gentleman 
who  was  proprietor  of  the  extraordinary  show  of 
which  these  three  people  became  members,  was  a 
little  man  with  keen  blue  eyes,  red  hair,  lively  dis- 
position and  a  power  over  horses  seldom  equaled. 
He  strangely  enough  conceived  the  idea  that  a 
show  combining  theatrics  and  circus  would  be  a 
paying  thing  with  that  western  element  comprising 
the  Garden  City.  In  pursuance  of  this  idea  he  se- 
cured a  large  theatre  in  Monroe  street,  ambitiously 
named  Amphitheatre,  but  popularly  styled  "  the 
barn."  Here  the  performance  opened  by  an  ex- 
hibition of  trained  horses  and  gymnasts  in  a  large 
circus  ring.  After  an  hour's  performance,  some- 
times longer,  a  stage  slowly  rolled  forward  and 
covered  the.  ring  ;  then  the  theatrical  part  fol- 
lowed, concluding  the  evening's  entertainment. 

Fancy  this  combination!  We  of  the  modern 
times  with  our  chaste  tastes  gravitating  between  so- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  157 

ciety  plays  which  are  all  dress,  and  Black  Crooks 
and  Ali  Babas  with  scarcely  any  dress  at  all.  Chi- 
cago thirty-five  years  ago  might  be  considered  quite 
a  youthful  maiden.  Yet,  even  at  that  early  age 
she  showed  a  decided  preference  for  what  was  gen- 
teel. She  shook  her  head  dejectedly  over  this  odd 
combination  of  circus  riding  and  stage;  she  did 
what  was  more  important  than  head  shaking, — she 
denied  it  paying  patronage.  At  a  time  when  all 
amusements  seemed  in  a  languishing  condition  this 
was  hardly  matter  for  wonder.  This  city,  young  and 
untutored  though  she  was  at  that  time,  was  quite 
enough  of  an  anomaly  herself  without  fostering 
other  anomalies  in  her  very  bosom.  The  specta- 
cle of  a  circus,  instantly  succeeded  by  a  rendition  of 
Othello  or  Hamlet,  was  too  much  for  even  her  for- 
bearance. 

The  management,  finding  that  Shakspeare  and 
circus  didn't  harmonize  very  well,  put  on  some  of 
those  wild  Indian  romances  dear  to  youthful  hearts, 
—  notably  Putnam  —  then  came  Crissy's  period  of 
torture,  for  these  plays  permitted  the  introduction 
of  horses,  thus  giving  scope  to  the  equine  tenden- 
cies of  the  management.  Crissy's  limited  acquaint- 
ance with  these  animals  made  her  regard  them 
much  as  one  does  an  active  volcano  ;  the  awfulness 
of  having  to  cross  the  stage  every  evening  on  a  big 
black  horse,  tearing  at  full  gallop  over  an  extremely 
shaky  bridge,  was  something  unforgetable.  Another 
unpleasant  feature  of  this  curious  coalition  was  that 


IS8  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

the  horses'  stalls,  standing  immediately  in  the  rear 
of  the  stage,  in  order  to  have  these  beasts  handy  to 
lead  out  at  a  moment's  notice,  put  the  poor  Thes- 
pians to  sad  inconvenience,  as,  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  another,  they 
were  obliged  to  run  across  close  to  these  stalls. 

It  was  an  odd  sight  to  see  a  Roman  matron 
anxiously  grabbing  up  her  skirts  with  both  hands, 
as  with  frightened  eyes  she  ran  past  the  horses'  im- 
pending heels  ;  or  an  elegant  young  blood  of  Ven- 
ice in  silk  tights,  laced  and  frilled  doublet,  and 
immaculate  ringlets,  muttering  oaths  of  a  very 
modern  nature,  as  he  too  essayed  this  delicate 
task. 

But  the  worst  —  the  very  worst  of  all  —  was  the 
mingling  of  these  two  elements.  The  stage  being 
a  very  large  one,  the  whole  circus  force  had  to  be 
put  on  for  street  scenes  and  processions.  The 
wrath  of  the  actors  over  these  equinely  odored  ad- 
juncts, packed  closely  with  them  in  the  side  scenes 
preparatory  to  going  on,  may  be  fancied.  It  defies 
description  ;  the  circus  people  feeling  themselves 
despised  by  the  others,  fell  in  their  turn  to  derid- 
ing. Many  a  fierce,  though  suppressed,  war  of 
words  was  conducted  in  these  narrow  spaces,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  peculiar  compliments  bandied  in 
the  green  room. 

It  was  during  the  "  Siege  of  Delhi  "  that  these 
fierce  hatreds  between  the  theatric  and  circus  forces 
seemed  to  reach  a  point  which  threatened  demoli- 


VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR.  159 

tion  to  that  astonishing  combination.  However, 
they  got  through  the  winter  without  bloodshed, 
which  was  something  in  their  favor. 

When  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  the  disagree- 
ables of  Crissy's  professional  life  became  more  pro- 
nounced, her  mother  regretted  that  accident  had 
placed  her  in  that  position  ;  but  the  web  of  circum- 
stance closed  around  the  girl,  compelling  her  to 
retain  this  employment  until  the  disbanding  of  this 
amphitheatrical  attraction. 

Her  father  succumbed  during  the  winter  to  his 
old  habits,  and  want  as  well  as  anxiety  sat  around 
the  hearthstone.  It  became  evident  that  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton would  soon  pass  to  that  land  whence  there  is 
no  return.  She  was  uncomplaining  in  her  grief  and 
suffering,  but  the  hand  laid  on  her  had  been  too 
heavy  ;  her  slight  frame  withered  under  it.  When 
the  spring  greenness  was  on  nature  again,  she  grew 
too  weak  to  think  of  working  any  more.  She  was 
in  correspondence  with  some  of  her  husband's  rel- 
atives, who  kindly  offered  her  a  home.  After  con- 
sultation with  her  stanch  friends,  George  and 
Crissy,  she  accepted  the  kindness  and  bade  a  tear- 
ful farewell  —  a  final  one,  too  —  to  her  Chicago 
friends.  She  died  a  few  months  later. 

Crissy's  vagabond  existence  was  ended.  She 
secured  an  employment  which  gave  her  some  op- 
portunity to  study;  but  destiny  had  Crissy's  future 
all  mapped  out.  The  girl  who  suffered  irfsult, 
starvation  almost,  during  her  year  of  vagabondage, 


160  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

was  to  occupy  a  position  better  suited  to  her  lineage 
and  the  early  prospects  of  her  parents. 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  George,  like  Crissy,  deter- 
mined to  cast  his  lines  in  other  places.  He  told 
Crissy  confidentially  that  a  fellow  needed  a  tre- 
mendous stock  of  talent  anyhow  to  accomplish 
anything  in  the  profession.  His  sister  slyly  re- 
marked that  the  removal  of  a  female  aspirant  from 
that  mighty  corps  had  more  to  do  with  his  deter- 
mination than  anything  else.  George  was  very 
successful  in  his  new  avocation ;  he  was  with  a 
growing  firm  who  appreciated  his  faithfulness.  He 
had  one  great  trouble  —  it  seemed  as  if  Crissy  would 
never  learn  to  love  him ;  he  tried  to  be  so  patient 
too.  It  was  months  after  Mrs.  Burton's  death  that 
he  ventured  to  speak  upon  the  subject  of  his  love. 
He  hoped  the  old  boat,  with  its  accompanying  trag- 
edy, would  by  this  time  be  a  dim  memory  to  Crissy. 
He  hardly  more  than  began  to  speak  when  the  girl 
turned  to  him  with  quivering  lips  and  said:  "I 
know  what  you  mean,  dear  George,  but  I  can't 
listen  to  you — I  can't  just  yet." 

Then  he  said  no  more  until  the  War  broke  out ; 
he  was  out  with  the  first  volunteers.  Mrs.  Trevan- 
ion  wept  openly  at  parting  from  him  and  Crissy 
looked  very  pale.  As  he  clasped  her  hand  in  good- 
bye, he  whispered  very  humbly,  "May  I  write  to 
you,  dear?"  Then  Crissy  said  he  could. 

He  wasn't  much  to  look  at,  as  he  marched  off 
with  the  other  boys,  but  his  heart  was  just  about 


VAGABOND  FOR  A  YEAR,  161 

right,  and  his  spirit  as  brave  as  any  six-footer 
among  them.  The  pain  of  the  unwonted  absence 
of  a  friend  so  true  and  unobtrusive,  gave  Crissy 
that  first  little  sad  thrill  which  she  afterwards  con- 
fessed to  George  was  the  harbinger  of  the  lifetime 
of  love  she  bore  him  later.  George  was  only  ab- 
sent a  few  months  when  Trevanion  sickened.  One 
of  the  climatic  fevers  seized  him,  and  found  an 
easy  victim  in  a  frame  undermined  by  excesses. 

All  this  time  strange  things  were  happening 
across  seas.  It  chanced  that  Trevanion's  father 
had  a  brother  who  was  a  bachelor,  very  wealthy. 
This  man  lived  to  be  very  old.  Why  it  ever  en- 
tered his  head  to  select  the  Trevanion  in  America 
to  leave  his  money  to,  no  one  could  imagine,  un- 
less it  was  that  he  always  heard  him  alluded  to  as 
the  "black  sheep,"  the  "scapegoat,"  etc.  This  be- 
quest reached  Trevanion  on  his  deathbed.  Too 
late  to  help  him  retrieve  the  errors  of  a  life,  but  yet 
a  gladness  to  light  that  dark  tide  he  floated  on. 

When,  at  the  end  of  his  three  fighting  years, 
George  returned  home,  he  was  unscathed,  except 
by  some  slight  scratches,  and  a  private  still.  He 
couldn't  bring  fame  or  gold  to  his  beloved,  but  he 
brought  the  treasure  of  an  unswerving  devotion. 
It  was  not  long  before  they  were  married,  for  Mrs. 
Trevanion,  who  had  been  George's  sincere  friend 
from  the  first,  urged  on  Crissy  to  have  no  more 
delays. 

As  years  slipped  by  Crissy  renewed  acquaintance 


1 62  VAGABOND  FOR  A   YEAR. 

with  some  of  the  associates  of  her  vagabond  year. 
A  few  of  them  became  famous ;  some  of  them  lived 
out  histories  sad  indeed.  Crissy  always  retained  a 
feeling  of  deep  affection  for  that  profession  in 
which  she  had  the  temerity  to  attempt  so  much. 
She  made  Chicago  her  permanent  home,  and 
watched  its  growth  with  interest. 

She  is  a  gray-headed  woman  now,  with  grand- 
children clustering  about  her ;  she  often  tells  them 
how  different  the  Chicago  of  her  youth  was  from 
the  great  city  they  see  now,  with  its  magnificent 
parks,  its  elevated  roads,  its  twenty-story  buildings, 
and  its  great  World's  Fair.  Then  the  young 
people  look  at  her  very  earnestly  and  think  how 
old  dear  grandma  must  be  to  remember  so  much. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


ALL  ON   A  CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

• 

OUR  scene  opens  in  the  Emerald  Isle.  It  was 
the  close  of  a  beautiful  day  in  early  spring ;  the  sun 
had  set,  but  the  fading  loveliness  of  its  bright 
tints  remained ;  an  intense  stillness  was  over 
everything. 

On  the  outskirts  of  a  quiet  hamlet  two  figures, 
male  and  female,  walked  side  by  side  without 
speaking,  until  they  reached  a  stile,  at  which  both 
paused  as  if  by  mutual  understanding.  The  man, 
who  might  be  in  his  twenty-second  year,  was  of  a 
bright,  open  countenance,  stalwart  though  not  un- 
gainly figure.  He  appeared  in  some  mental  agita- 
tion, if  his  frowning  brow,  moistened  eyes,  and 
compressed  lips  might  be  considered  any  indica- 
tion. 

The  girl,  some  four  years  his  junior,  drooped  in 
a  plaintive  manner  a  shapely  head,  adorned  by  a 
mass  of  light -brown  hair,  fastened  with  a  certain 
careless  grace  in  a  loose  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  She  would  seem  by  her  attitude  to  be  dep- 
recating some  recent  remark  made  by  her  compan- 
ion. She  was  a  girl  as  prepossessing  in  her  appear- 
ance as  those  of  her  class  generally  are.  She  was  an 
Irish  peasant.  There  was  a  pleading  look  in  her 
blue  eyes,  a  timid  melancholy  about  her  whole  de- 
165 


1 66  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

meaner,  which  had  a  charm  of  its  own.  The  pass- 
ing stranger,  who  at  first  might  regard  her  careless- 
ly, would,  after  a  moment,  involuntarily  turn  his 
head  to  take  another  glance  at  that  shrinking 
countenance,  and  the  sorrowful  droop  of  the  young 
mouth.  After  a  few  minutes  of  silence,  during 
which  the  young  man  leaned  against  the  stile,  rest- 
lessly kicking  the  loosened  earth  with  the  toe  of 
his  brogans,  the  girl  said,  in  a  low  and  tremulous 
voice,  "You  know,  Dave,  dear,  that  I  can't  help 
myself.  I  must  do  as  they  tell  me,  and  go  wherever 
they  choose  to  send  me.  What  can  a  poor  girl 
like  me  oppose  to  the  wishes  of  the  only  kith  and 
kin  she  has  in  the  world?"  At  this  the  gentle  head 
drooped  lower,  and  tears  stood  in  her  large  blue 
eyes. 

"  And  what,"  answered  the  man,  in  a  deep, 
strong  voice,  "  what  is  to  become  of  me  left  alone 
here?  Do  you  think  there  can  be  life,  or  hope, 
for  me  .in  any  place  where  you  are  not?  Why,  the 
very  sky  will  lose  its  sunshine,  the  birds  forget  to 
sing.  All  will  turn  dark  with  you  away,  Acushla!" 

Under  the  influence  of  the  emotion  which  pos- 
sessed him,  this  man  spoke  with  comparative  elo- 
quence ;  this  was  not  his  every-day  language.  The 
girl  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  surprise,  not  unmixed 
with  admiration.  "  Ah,  Dave,"  she  cried  despair- 
ingly, "don't  talk  like  that  when  you  know  that  we 
must  part,  and  so  soon.  Perhaps  you  can  follow 
us  after  a  while.  America  is  a  big  country,  but 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  167 

I'm  sure  you'd  find  us,  and  then  perhaps  there  you'd 
get  work,  and  earn  money  enough  for  us  to  marry 
and  have  a  little  cabin  of  our  own." 

"Yes,  yes,''  he  responded  impatiently  ;  "all  that 
would  be  well  enough,  Annie.  I'd  follow  you  to 
the  ends  of  the  world,  if  it  was  only  myself  to  think 
of;  but  the  ould  people,  could  I  lave  them  suffer? 
They  will  never  give  up  their  native  place,  and  I 
cannot  lave  them.  Where  would  they  get  the  bite 
and  the  sup  without  me?  No,  Alanna,  if  you  cannot 
remain  with  me,  we  must  part,  and  God  help  me  ! 
That's  all." 

Then  he  turned  his  head  away  to  hide  the 
struggle  which  seemed  to  shake  his  stalwart  frame 
as  if  it  had  been  a  leaf.  For  a  few  moments  there 
was  silence,  and  a  sense  of  sadness  which  filled  the 
space  about  them  like  something  palpable.  After 
a  time  the  girl  spoke  again.  She  touched  his  arm 
softly,  looking  at  the  intensity  of  his  emotion  with 
something  like  fear.  "Dave,  Dave!  don't  feel  like 
that !  Sure  we  cannot  help  ourselves,  we  are  so 
poor  and  so  young,  what  can  we  do?  But  faith, 
if  it  will  be  any  comfort  to  you,  dear,  I'll  promise 
to  wait  in  America,  or  anywhere  else,  unmarried  for 
you.  You  shall  come  and  claim  me  when  you  can, 
and  find  me  true." 

He  opened  his  arms  with  a  sudden  impulse,  and 
clasped  her  in  them,  but  as  his  face  drooped  over 
the  gentle  head  upon  his  bosom,  a  shadow  deeper 
than  the  falling  gloom  of  night  was  on  it,  perhaps 


1 68  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

thrown  backward  from  the  unknown  future,  the  un- 
defined darkness  of  what  was  to  be  !  "Oh,  Annie," 
he  said  sadly,  "  when  oceans  roll  between  us,  when 
all  around  you  is  happiness  in  that  country,  where 
they  tell  me  that  poverty  and  toil  are  scarcely 
known,  it's  little  you  may  remember  me,  or  the 
promises  made  in  ould  Ireland.  But  good-bye, 
darling ;  there  is  no  help  in  the  talking  of  it ;  God 
alone  knows  what  is  before  us!"  Then  he  took 
her  hand;  and  turning  slowly,  as  the  darkness  deep- 
ened around  them,  they  retraced  their  steps  to  the 
little  hamlet. 

*** 

To  the  residents  of  Chicago  a  walk  along  Hal- 
sted  street,  south  of  Van  Buren,  presents  anything 
but  attractive  features.  He  or  she,  as  the  case 
may  be,  being  principally  cognizant  of  many  bad 
odors,  multitudinous  saloons,  and  filthy  sidewalks, 
over  which,  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  far  into  the 
night,  a  motley  congregation  of  people  are  passing  ; 
but  as  evening  comes  on  this  concourse  of  persons 
often  becomes  a  swaying  mass,  including  all  na- 
tionalities and  all  conditions  of  life. 

Along  this  street  the  tired  artisans  wend  their 
way  homeward,  stopping  only  too  frequently  to 
assuage  their  thirst  and  weariness  in  one  of  the 
many  saloons.  The  busy  housewife,  often  of  the 
Irish  or  German  type,  laden  down  by  parcels  in- 
numerable, bends  her  tired  feet  homewards  ;  the 
Jittle  cash  girls,  unkempt  and  dirty,  often  insuf- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  169 

ficiently  clad,  but  playful  and  happy,  despite  hard 
work  and  squalid  surroundings,  walk  along  in 
pairs,  or  three  or  four  abreast,  talking  loudly  of 
the  experiences  of  the  day.  The  professional 
gamblers,  generally  adorned  by  large-sized  dia- 
monds of  doubtful  genuineness,  hasten  along  with 
a  contraction  of  the  eyebrows,  which  denotes  the 
mental  calculation  which  is  so  prominent  a  part  of 
the  hard  work  of  these  gentlemen ;  gaily  dressed, 
painted  cheeked,  and  bold  females,  also  tread  these 
thoroughfares,  and  encountering  the  glances  of  the 
dark-browed  gamblers,  greet  them  with  a  smile  of 
recognition  or  the  peculiar  badinage  of  their  class. 
Here,  too,  upon  this  busy  street  may  be  seen  the 
telegraph  and  messenger  boys  in  numbers,  gener- 
ally smoking  cigarettes,  or  cheeks  distended  by 
great  wads  of  tobacco,  their  lips  swollen,  eyes 
heavy,  hands  and  faces  smeared  by  dirt — excep- 
tions to  these  sometimes  occurring  in  the  shape  of 
some  bright-eyed,  clear-faced  telegraph  boy  step- 
ping briskly  along,  head  up,  mouth  smiling,  every 
movement  expressive  of  alertness,  you  could  safely 
put  such  a  boy  down  at  once  in  your  mind  as  the 
darling  of  some  mother  or  sister,  hastening  through 
all  the  turmoil  to  a  home.  Through  that  mass  of 
unsavory  humanity,  a  face  of  this  kind  appearing 
now  and  then  was  like  the  rifted  cloud  which  shows 
the  blue  beyond.  It  may  seem  strange  that  re- 
spectable toilers  in  the  great  city  should  choose  for 
homes  a  place  contiguous  to  this  brawling,  filthy 


1 70  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

street, — a  street  so  often  represented  by  its  habitue's 
appearing  at  the  police  dock  to  answer  all  kinds 
of  charges  from  drunkenness  up  to  murder,  but  so 
it  is ;  for  on  many  of  the  streets  leading  east  from 
Halsted  reside  persons  who,  though  wage-workers, 
belong  to  the  class  who  aim  to  be  sober,  industri- 
ous, and  maintain  a  decency  of  living  and  outward 
appearance  one  would  scarcely  look  for  in  such  a 
locality. 

Our  story  conducts  us  to  one  of  these  streets 
which,  beginning  or  ending,  one  hardly  knows 
which,  in  Halsted,  runs  thence  eastward  to  the 
river.  The  houses  upon  this  street  seemed  to  be 
mostly  frame,  in  all  stages  of  architecture  and  di- 
lapidation. In  one  of  these,  larger  and  cleaner 
than  the  adjacent  ones,  two  women  sat  in  earnest 
conversation. 

The  younger  of  these  women,  who  was  in  her 
twenty-third  year,  was  tall  in  figure,  well  built  and 
strong ;  her  hair,  of  raven  blackness,  matched  the 
large  dark  eyes  which  gave  her  face,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  its  blunt  features  and  rosy  cheeks,  a  very 
youthful  look ;  the  expression  of  her  countenance 
denoted  a  disposition  made  up  of  equal  parts  of 
goodness  and  cheerfulness,  with  the  latter  quality 
at  present  predominating.  Her  companion  was  a 
woman  some  years  older,  whose  shapely  head,  with 
its  masses  of  light  brown  hair,  had  a  melancholy 
droop  to  it,  her  eyes,  large  and  blue,  had  a  look  of 
appealing  sadness.  There  was  something  about 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  I?1 

her  which  touched  the  beholder  with  an  involun- 
tary pity. 

She  gazed  fixedly  at  her  vis  a  vis  of  the  cheer- 
ful countenance  and  said,  "  So,  Bridget,  next  Tues- 
day is  the  day ;  well,  you're  the  lucky  and  happy 
woman  to  be  able  to  marry  the  young  man  of  your 
choice ;  I  wish  to  God  all  women  could  be  so  for- 
tunate." 

Bridget  answered  in  some  surprise,  "Sure  An- 
nie !  anybody'd  think  you  afther  envying  me,  to 
hear  the  way  you  talk  !  you,  too,  that  are  so  swate 
and  pritty,  with  plinty  of  the  young  fellows  dang- 
ling afther  you  ;  sure  you  have  only  to  pick  and 
choose ! " 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  with  a  touch  of  anger  in 
her  voice;  "  a  pretty  lot  to  pick  and  choose  from  ! 
What  man -jack  is  there  amongst  them  could  sup- 
port me  like  a  lady  ?  Haven't  I  had  enough  of 
hard  work  these  long  years  past,  but  I  must  pick 
up  and  marry  some  fool  man,  who  can  scarcely 
scrape  a  living  for  the  two  of  us  ?  " 

"Is  that  what  yer'e  talking  about?"  said  Brid- 
get, disdainfully.  "  If  I  waited  till  my  Jack  had 
money  to  keep  me  like  a  lady,  it  would  be  many  a 
year  before  we'd  marry!  But  I  tell  you,  Annie, 
I'm  willing  to  work  with  and  for  Jack  ;  he's  that 
good  and  kind  to  me,  we  love  each  other  so  dearly, 
that  by  the  blessed  Virgin  I'd  sooner  be  a  slave  to 
him  than  queen  to  any  other  man!" 

"  Oh!"  exclaimed  the  other  impatiently,  "  I  un- 


:72  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

derstand  all  that  well  enough;  you  can  face  pov- 
erty, worry,  everything,  because  you  love  the  man, 
but  what  would  be  the  sinse  of  marrying  all  these 
it  you  didn't  love  him — that's  what  I  ask  you?" 

Bridget  looked  at  her  friend  steadily,  somewhat 
sternly,  too.  "  Then  you  mane  to  tell  me,"  she 
said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that  you'd  marry  a  man 
who  could  keep  you  like  a  lady  whether  you  loved 
him  or  no?" 

The  other  hung  her  head,  a  few  heavy  tear 
drops  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "  Don't  be  angered 
with  me,  Bridget,  but  it's  the  truth!  I  left  my 
heart  in  Ireland  years  ago,  with  a  man  I'm  never 
likely  to  see  again.  We  were  promised  to  one  an- 
other, he  used  to  write  to  me,  but  for  two  years 
past  not  a  line  ;  perhaps  " — this  was  spoken  with 
great  bitterness — "  he  has  found  someone  more  to 
his  liking  than  his  simple  Irish  girl.  Oh,  well,  it's 
a  world  of  misery!  Why  should  I  remain  true  to 
him  who  has  forsaken  me?  No,  the  first  man  who 
can  offer  me  a  good  support  gets  me,  even  if  he's 
ould  enough  to  be  my  grandfather!" 

Bridget  shook  her  head  warningly  at  this  out- 
burst. "  It's  all  wrong,  Annie  ;  you  must  never  do 
it ;  wait  awhile,  you  are  young  yet ;  should  you 
never  hear  from  him  again,  you  may  get  to  love 
someone  else.  Tell  me  now,"  she  continued,  with 
a  woman's  quick  intuition  of  the  necessity  of 
changing  the  course  of  the  conversation,  "  how  is 
the  ould  lady?  It's  not  long  for  this  world  she  is, 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  1 73 

I'm  thinkin',  so  pale  she's  looking.  It's  lucky  for 
her  that  her  husband's  the  kindest  of  ould  fel- 
lows." 

"  She's  failing  fast  now,"  answered  Annie,  "  her 
sands  will  soon  be  run,  it's  a  good  friend  I'll  miss 
when  she  is  gone  ;  she  and  the  ould  man  have  been 
like  mother  and  father  to  me  this  last  three  years, 
since  my  own  died  and  left  me  here  in  a  strange 
land  and  you  too,  Bridget,  darlin',  what  would 
I  have  done  without  your  friendship?  Now  you'll 
have  your  heart  so  set  on  Jack  that  it's  little  I'll  be 
seeing  of  you." 

Bridget  laughed  gaily.  "  Never  you  fear  that," 
she  said,  "  I'll  keep  a  little  corner  for  you  yet,  alan- 
na,  but  come  now,  you  must  see  the  wedding  gown, 
and  look  at  the  pretty  lace  veil  that  I'll  be  wearing 
Tuesday  next,  please  God." 

V 

Near  the  little  village  of  Ballyclash,  situated 
somewhat  north  of  Enniskillen,  might  be  seen, 
about  the  year  1826,  a  very  comfortable-looking 
farm  house, — that  is,  comfortable  for  that  date  and 
country.  All  about  this  place  bespoke  a  thriftiness 
and  even  tidiness  most  unusual  to  an  Irish  farmer. 
One  thing  was  certain,  that  the  owner  of  all  this 
exceptional  comfort  earned  it  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow,  for  he,  a  gray-headed,  tall,  and  strongly  built 
man  might  be  seen  at  work  when  day  first  peeped 
from  beneath  its  blankets,  still  plodding  at  his  toil 
when  sunset  painted  its  flaunting  colors  along  the 


174  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

sky.  In  the  neighboring  village  of  Ballyclash,  this 
man  was  frequently  spoken  of  as  "  that  careful  ould 
man,  John  Malone  ;"  to  this  was  added  with  many 
a  knowing  "hod,  "Ah!  but  he's  the  rale  hand  at  a 
bargain;  it  isn't  much  ye'll  be  gettin'  out  of  ould 
Malone;  and  there's  his  son  John,  as  knowin'  he'll 
soon  be  as  the  ould  one!" 

Now  be  it  known  that  there  was  nothing  of 
disparagement  in  these  remarks.  Business  ability 
is  admired  all  the  world  over  ;  the  poorer  friends 
and  neighbors  regarded  the  shrewdness  of  father 
and  son  with  something  akin  to  veneration;  where 
so  many  strive  and  so  few  succeed,  the  exceptions 
call  for  encomiums.  John,  the  younger,  was  now  a 
man  grown  ;  his  features,  though  aquiline,  pleasing, 
his  keen,  gray  eyes,  and  firm,  thin  lips  denoting 
the  shrewdness  inherited  from  his  father.  Up  to 
the  time  of  which  we  write,  not  a  cloud  had  blotted 
the  domestic  or  business  horizon  of  the  Malone 
family — John,  the  younger,  being  a  pattern  boy  in 
every  respect,  entering  into  all  his  father's  schemes 
of  money-making  or  improvement  with  a  hearti- 
ness which  made  the  old  man  entertain  bright 
hopes  of  the  future  before  his  son.  Old  Malone 
was  a  man  of  few  words.  He  expressed  approba- 
tion or  contrary  feelings  more  by  significant  looks 
than  any  spoken  avowals.  One  of  the  few  subjects 
upon  which  he  was  known  to  converse,  except 
topics  appertaining  to  the  farm,  was  that  of  what 
he  termed  "  larnin'."  Upon  this  weakness  he 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  1 75 

dwelt  with  great  severity,  maintaining  that  the  man 
who  would  waste  his  means  and  time  upon  any- 
thing so  utterly  useless  was  little  more  than  a  fool. 

"  Look,"  he  would  say,  "  at  ould  Pat  O'Rouk! 
What  does  he  do  but  take  money  enough  to  buy  a 
fine  bit  of  land,  just  to  send  his  boy  to  a  place  that 
they  call  'college  '  for  a  year  !  For  my  part,  I'm  a 
well-to-do  man ;  you  can  see  all  about  you  what  I 
have  done,  and  divil  a  bit  of  larnin'  did  /  get, 
except  in  the  little  school  at  Ballyclash  !  " 

"  You,  too,  John,"  he  would  say,  apostrophising 
his  son,  "  see  what  a  fine  talent  you  have  for 
getting  on  in  the  world.  The  village  has  given 
you  all  the  larnin'  that  you  need."  Then  he  would 
relapse  into  silence,  but  the  lively  twinkle  of  his 
eyes,  the  smiling  of  his  well-formed  mouth,  would 
show  that  he  was  still  pursuing  the  subject  in  his 
mind. 

It  is  often  to  be  noticed  that  anything  inter- 
dicted or  spoken  of  with  disparagement  in  a  family, 
is  sure  to  make  a  strong  impression  on  the  minds 
of  younger  members  of  the  family.  The  child  who 
is  told  that  the  theatre  or  circus  are  haunts  of  the 
devil,  and  must  not  be  approached,  has  a  burning 
desire  to  investigate  ;  so  it  was  with  young  John. 
As  he  worked  afield  or  in  the  early  dawn  made 
preparations  for  the  day's  labor,  his  mind  still  ran 
upon  this  interesting  theme.  He  thought  within 
himself,  "  This  larnin'  must  be  a  fine  thing,  or  it 
wouldn't  cost  so  dear  ;  "  for  in  his  experience  of 


i?6  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

cattle,  farming  implements  and  the  like,  the 
highest  priced  was  always-  the  best,  and  as  old  John 
would  say,  sententiously,  "  much  the  cheapest  in  the 
long  run."  Now,  why  this  larnin',  which  was  so 
costly,  should  be  useless,  puzzled  young  John  very 
much.  But  he  kept  his  fancies  to  himself,  inwardly 
resolving,  however,  to  look  at  the  thing  closely  the 
first  opportunity  he  could  get.  The  chance  for  this 
soon  presented  itself ;  for  one  day  young  John 
betook  himself  to  Ballyclash  to  look  after  some 
business  interests.  It  was  a  good  time  —  old  John 
observed  —  to  take,  as  there  was  nothing  hurrying 
to  be  done  about  the  farm  or  buildings;  but  Fate, 
the  mischief-maker,  had  ordained  that  this  was  to 
be  a  day  of  days  to  young  John.  As  he  sat  in  the 
open  and  front  room  of  the  little  tavern,  or  public 
house,  waiting  for  the  man  he  was  to  see  about  a 
transfer  of  land,  in  steps  a  young  fellow  in  his 
thirtieth  year,  or  thereabouts.  He  attracted  John's 
attention  at  once.  This  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  for  he  did  not  belong  to  the  genus  homo  of  this 
locality.  Ballyclash  had  no  hand  whatever  in  the 
forming  of  this  young  person.  His  step  was  brisk, 
his  movements  very  quick  but  graceful,  his  clothing 
had  an  elegance  quite  beyond  description  ;  it 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  him.  He  was  handsome  in 
countenance,  and  his  eyes  beamed  with  kindness 
and  intelligence.  He  sat  a  short  distance  from 
John  and  called  for  some  refreshment.  John 
looked  at  him  with  astonishment  and  admiration. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  IT 7 

"Sure,"  he  thought,  "this  must  be  an  Enniskillen 
man  ;  such  fruit  niver  grew  on  our  trees." 

The  stranger  seemed  wrapped  in  his  own  medi- 
tations ;  he  thoughtfully  tapped  his  finger  tips 
upon  the  table  before  him,  looking,  as  it  were,  at 
his  own  thoughts  with  that  dreamy,  inward  expres- 
sion of  the  eyes  which  betokens  deep  considera- 
tion. 

"Ah  !  "  said  John  to  himself,  admiringly,  "but 
his  head  is  full  of  fine  things  !  pleasant  ones,  too, 
mayhap  !  " 

The  concentration  of  John's  gaze  and  observa- 
tion made  themselves  felt  at  last  upon  his  silent 
companion,  for  the  latter,  looking  up  suddenly, 
caught  John's  glance  in  all  its  intensity,  before  the 
boy  had  a  chance  to  look  the  other  way.  The 
stranger  gave  a  friendly  smile,  remarking,  at  the 
same  time,  that  he  thought  everything  was  looking 
well  through  that  part  of  the  country.  John  felt 
at  his  ease  instantly ;  the  spontaneous  kindness  of 
the  young  fellow  found  a  quick  response  within 
him. 

In  a  few  moments,  with  chairs  drawn  near  each 
other,  they  fell  into  a  lively  conversation  upon 
various  matters,  only  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  the  countryman  John  had  been  waiting 
for. 

During  John's  conversation  with  his  business 
friend,  the  stranger  disposed  of  the  refreshments 
he  had  ordered,  and  then,  finding  John  disengaged, 


178  ALL  ON  A   CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

proposed  that  they  should  stroll  out  together.  To 
this  a  glad  assent  was  given.  As  they  walked 
along  the  stranger  talked  as  John  had  never  heard 
any  one  talk  before. 

"Why,"  thought  John,  "  the  Priest  is  nothing 
to  this  man;  he  niver  talked  half  so  swately." 

Under  this  magic  tongue  all  things  about  them 
took  a  new  meaning  to  John.  He  saw  beauties 
in  the  landscape  never  seen  before.  He  had  a  more 
realizing  sense  of  the  possibilities  of  life ;  even 
trifling  things,  unnoticed  by  him  previously, 
acquired  an  interest  under  the  comments  and  ex- 
planations of  his  new  friend. 

The  stranger  could  not  be  insensible  to  the 
admiration  he  excited,  or  the  close  and  flattering 
attention  bestowed  upon  his  every  word. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  at  length,  "  that  I  do 
all  the  talking,  and  don't  give  you  a  chance." 

"  What  would  be  the  use  of  it,"  answered  John, 
"  when  I  have  nothing  to  say." 

"Why  should  you  have  nothing  to  say?"  asked 
the  young  man  in  a  surprised  tone. 

"  Because,"  replied  John,  "  there  may  be  many 
things  to  talk  about,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  do 
it.  Howiver  you  can  talk  as  beautiful  as  you  do  is 
a  wonder  to  me." 

The  stranger  laughed.  "  My  friend,"  he  said, 
"  you  have  a  splendid  eye  and  head,  you  are 
naturally  capable  of  a  great  deal,  but  it  is  evident 
that  you  have  not  studied  —  a  little  book  knowl- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  179 

edge,  even  a  little,  will  help  you  to  understand 
your  own  capabilities — you  want  learning." 

John  started !  "  You  want  to  devote  a  few 
years  of  your  life  to  the  acquirement  of  knowledge. 
A  young  man's  head  is  a  storehouse,  he  must  fill 
it  from  floor  to  rafter  with  good  learning  of  all 
kinds.  If  he  should  not  need  the  use  of  this  learn- 
ing at  once,  still  it  will  brighten  life  for  him ;  and 
when  he  is  growing  old,  then  he  can  draw  upon  all 
the  treasures  packed  away  in  that  head  of  his, 
knowing  that  life,  with  these  at  his  disposal,  means 
enjoyment  of  the  best  and  highest  kind." 

The  stranger  spoke  with  enthusiasm.  His 
cheek  glowed,  his  eye  flashed,  his  chest  heaved. 
John  felt  to  his  heart's  core  that  the  "  larnin'  "  so 
often  spoken  of  in  scorn  before  him  had  been 
basely  belied. 

Then  he  told  his  friend  in  faltering  tones  how 
much  he  would  like  to  go  to  some  place  where  this 
wonderful  learning  might  be  had. 

The  stranger,  sympathetic  and  touched  by  the 
boy's  earnestness,  spoke  to  him  of  some  good 
schools  and  colleges,  at  a  distance  from  Ballyclash 
to  be  sure,  but  not  beyond  in  price  the  ample 
means  that  John  knew  his  father  to  be  possessed  of. 
Then  they  parted,  the  stranger  saying  that  he 
would  be  returning  that  way  again  in  a  couple  of 
weeks  and  would  be  pleased  to  see  John,  and  know 
of  his  success  in  getting  the  old  father  to  his  ideas. 
This  young  person,  whose  chance  acquaintance 


l8o  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

made  so  powerful  an  impression,  John  was  des- 
tined never  to  see  again.  What  determines  us  to 
the  most  important  steps  in  life  may  be  a  chance 
word,  a  look,  a  trifling  action.  When  the  soil  is 
ready,  the  conditions  favorable,  germination  is  very 
rapid.  Thus  the  acquaintance  of  a  day  may  exert 
a  more  powerful  influence  upon  our  hidden  resolve 
than  those  with  whom  we  come  in  constant  con- 
tact. Through  this  young  man  John  had  voiced 
the  longing  of  his  heart,  and  was  prepared, 
by  the  advice  and  encouragement  of  a  mere  stran- 
ger, to  enter  protest  against  the  instructions  of  a 
lifetime.  It  has  been  written  somewhere,  that 
"  there  is  nothing  so  catching  as  enthusiasm,"  and 
when  that  enthusiasm  touches  a  hidden  yet  strong 
sentiment  of  your  being,  with  what  force  it  holds, 
or  with  what  strength  it  impels  you. 

As  John  walked  homeward  from  Ballyclash,  he 
revolved  the  question  as  to  the  how,  when  and 
where  he  should  propound  to  his  father  the  impor- 
tant proposition  for  gaining  this  learning.  The 
more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  he  dreaded  the 
interview ;  he  knew  only  too  well  the  stubborness 
with  which  his  father  would  cling  to  an  idea  which 
had  been  so  deeply  imbedded  in  his  nature.  A 
pet  notion,  a  hobby,  too,  nursed  through  many 
years,  until  now  it  assumed  proportions  so  great 
that  it  would  be  like  tugging  his  father's  disposi- 
tion at  the  roots  to  advance  such  a  thing  to  his 
serious  consideration.  With  John  it  was  this  way: 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  181 

he  had  of  late  felt  the  strange  impulses  natural  to 
the  age  he  had  arrived  at.  He  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  manhood,  that  time  when  the  soul, 
realizing  its  depths,  and  somewhat  dimly  its  needs, 
reaches  out  for  something  better  than  has  been  its 
portion  yet.  Strong  yearnings  stirred  within  him  ; 
he  felt  as  feels  the  explorer  who  stands  upon  the 
outskirts  of  the  yet  untrodden  forest,  sure  of  peril, 
sure  of  hardship,  yet  impelled  to  press  forward  by 
the  irresistible  desire  to  know.  John  felt  thai;  his 
had  been  a  narrow  world,  that  far  beyond  its  little 
confines  surged  an  ocean  of  life  that  he  longed  to 
traverse  ;  that  this  mysterious  "learning"  was  to  be 
the  key  which  should  open  the  gate  to  all.  As  he 
sat  at  the  simple  supper  table  that  evening  with  his 
father,  mother  and  two  sisters  —  happy  little  girls, 
much  younger  than  John  —  he  felt  himself  quite 
weighed  down  by  thought.  He  stole  a  few  furtive 
glances  at  his  father's  face,  but  saw  nothing  there 
which  offered  any  inducement  for  him  to  unburden 
himself  of  that  which  lay  nearest  his  heart.  After 
a  short  conversation  on  the  business  of  the  day, 
the  different  members  of  the  family  plied  knives 
and  forks  with  diligence.  Silence  prevailed,  broken 
only  by  occasional  childish  laughter  from  the 
girls.  The  mother,  gentle  soul,  looked  at  John 
with  some  concern,  for  she,  woman-like,  felt  that 
there  must  be  something  yet  unspoken  of. 

John    thought    to    himself,    "  I'd     better     not 
speak  now.     I'll  take  the  night  to  think   it  over," 


1 82  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Long  afterwards  he  could  recall  all  the  little  in- 
cidents and  sensations  of  that  evening.  He  re- 
membered that  just  before  the  sun  went  down  a 
bird  was  singing  so  sweetly  in  a  bush  quite  near 
the  house,  how  the  balmy  wind  was  blowing  through 
the  open  doors  and  windows,  with  the  sweet  scent 
of  grass  and  flowers  upon  it  ;  the  meadow  stretch- 
ing greenly  out  below  the  house,  the  little  stream 
just  beyond  it,  how  peaceful  it  was  ;  there  was  a 
feeling  of  holiness  in  the  air,  as  if  every  cloud, 
breeze,  tree  and  bird  joined  in  solemn  vesper. 
Poor  John,  it  was  to  be  many  years  before  his  head 
would  be  pillowed  in  that  peaceful  home  again, 
and  then  not  him,  but  another  quite  different,  man 
— careworn,  tired,  with  the  flush  and  hope  of  youth 
quite  gone.  It  was  late  that  night  before  slumber 
touched  his  eyelids,  so  tossed  about  by  feverish 
anxiety  as  to  what  his  father  would  say  to  him,  that 
he  regretted  not  having  spoken  to  him  in  the  early 
evening,  and  having  the  matter  decided  one  way 
or  the  other.  After  some  hours  he  slept  at  last — 
only  to  repeat  his  anxieties  in  dreams. 

Early  in  the  morning,  as  was  their  wont,  the 
Malone  family  was  astir,  the  busy  mother  preparing 
the  meal,  the  little  girls  feeding  the  chickens,  the 
old  man  and  his  son  in  the  barn  getting  ready  to 
go  afield.  "  Well,"  thought  John,  "  as  soon  as  we 
ate  the  breakfast  I'll  spake  to  him,  for  I  can't  stand 
it  this  way  any  longer." 

Breakfast  being  finished,  the  old  man  repaired  to 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  183 

the  door-step  to  smoke  his  morning  pipe  before 
beginning  his  labors.  John  followed  and  sat  near 
by  in  silent  contemplation  of  his  father's  fine, 
though  somewhat  severe  face.  He  could  never  re- 
member a  time  when  he  found  it  so  difficult  to  ad- 
dress him,  but  it  was  now  "  neck  or  nothing;  "  so  he 
began,  "Father  I've  been  thinking  there's  some- 
thing I'd  like  to  spake  till  ye  about." 

"  Well,  spake  away,  bye,"  said  the  old  man,  smok- 
ing composedly. 

"  Then  father,"  said  John,  "  tell  me  this  ;  have 
I  iver  in  all  my  life  asked  you  to  give  me,  or  do  for 
me,  anything  worth  the  naming?" 

The  old  man  removed  the  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  seemed  to  reflect. 

"  No,  John!  "  he  answered,  "  I  can't  rightly  re- 
member that  there  is  ;  but,"  he  said  this  quickly,  a 
smile  curling  his  lips,  "  if  it's  the  young  sorrel  mare 
ye're  wantin,  she's  yours.  The  mother  told  me 
that  ye  seemed  to  like  the  baste  very  well  ;  so  take 
her  John,  and  welcome." 

This  good  natured  anticipation  of  what  his 
father  supposed  to  be  his  wishes  left  John  more  at 
a  loss  than  ever  how  to  proceed.  In  the  mean- 
time the  mother  had  quietly  stepped  near  the  door, 
where  she  remained  an  unnoticed  auditor  of  what 
transpired. 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  father,"  said  John,  gravely, 
"  but  it  was  not  the  sorrel  mare  I  thought  of ;  what 
I  want  is  to  larn  something.  This  is  a  big  world,  it's 


1 34  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

full  of  things  to  larn  ;  there's  a  great  world  outside 
of  Ballyclash,  father!  " 

"To  be  sure!  to  be  sure!"  responded  the  old 
man,  promptly;  "you're  right,  boy,  the  birdlings  will 
always  spread  wings  as  soon  as  they're  able  to.  It's 
a  change  ye're  wantin  ;  ye  want  to  see  other  places, 
and  parts  of  the  counthry,  and  you  shall  ;  there's 
your  mother's  brother  down  in  Dublin,  he'll  be 
glad  to  welkim  ye  ;  go  and  see  him;  stir  about  a  lit- 
tle ;  'twill  do  ye  good  !  " 

"No,  father,  no!  "  said  John,  hastily;  "you  do 
not  take  my  meaning;  it's  not  thravel  that  I  want, 
but  '  larnin.'  I  want  to  go  to  some  of  those  grand 
schools,  where  they  tache  everything!  It's  only 
lately  come  over  me  that  I'm  very  ignorant.  I  want 
to  be  bettered  in  my  mind  father  :  I'm  young  yet,  I 
ran  get  a  dale  of  larnin  if  I  thry!  " 

After  this  outburst  from  John  there  was  a  long 
silence.  The  old  man's  face  at  first  expressed 
blank  amazement ;  then  his  brow  puckered  into 
'frowns,  a  look  of  dark  and  deep  determination 
overspread  his  countenance. 

"This,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  what  you  want  ! 
Afther  a  lifetime  oftachingyou  the  uselessnessof  it, 
afther  hearing  me  tell  you  what  I  think  about  it, 
ye'll  ask  above  all  things  for  this!  Well,  then, 
here's  my  answer — I'll  not  give  it  to  you!  I  lived  a 
life  through  without  such  folly  ;  you  shall  follow 
in  my  footsteps." 

"  Father,"   said    John,    reproachfully,  "  if    you 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  I  $5 

were  a  poor  man  I'd  not  ask  for  this,  but  you  have 
the  manes.  You  own  yourself  this  is  the  first  time 
I  iver  asked  ye  for  aught!  " 

The  old  man  turned  upon  him  a  look  of  un- 
qualified anger.  "  Ye  have  had  your  say,  John, 
and  I've  had  mine  ;  there's  no  more  about  it,  for 
I'll  niver  consint  to  such  nonsense!  "  At  this,  lay- 
ing down  his  half-smoked  pipe,  he  walked  away. 

The  boy  felt  quite  convulsed  with  grief  and 
anger.  A  sense  of  injustice  surged  within  him. 
He  had  always  been  obedient  ;  he  had  never  till 
this  day  preferred  a  request  of  any  importance. 
Why  should  his  hopes  and  wishes  be  treated  in  this 
uncompromising  manner?  He  took  a  hasty  step 
inside  the  door  ;  his  mother  stood  there,  he  knew 
by  her  face  she  had  heard  all.  "  Mother, "  he 
exclaimed,  "I'll  do  the  thing  I've  set  my  heart  on, 
if  I  have  to  cut  through  solid  rock  to  get  at  it.  I 
never  wanted  anything  before  as  I  want  this.  I'll 
go  off  alone,  and  make  my  way  as  best  I  can,  but 
the  larnin  I'll  get,  if  it  takes  me  all  my  life  to  do 
it!" 

"John,"  she  cried,  "think  better  of  it  ;  don't 
go  away  when  your  father  has  the  heat  of  his  anger 
on  him  ;  all  will  come  right  if  you'll  wait  awhile!" 

"There's  that  within  me  that  wo'n't  let  me  wait! 
I'll  make  my  way  to  the  seaport  and  sail  for  Amer- 
ica ;  there  a  man  may  get  what  he  wants,  if  he's 
willing  to  work  for  it.  Good-bye,  mother  dear, 
you've  always  been  the  best  of  mothers  to  me,  but 


1 86  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

I  must  lave  you  now;  I'll  kiss  the  little  sisters  and 
go." 

"My  poor  child,"  sobbed  the  mother,  "  don't  go 
like  this  and  break  our  hearts;  sure!"  she  said  this 
with  sudden  hope,  "  I've  some  money  by  me ; 
take  that  and  go  to  Dublin  with  it  ;  there  wait  a 
little.  As  soon  as  your  father's  anger  cools  he'll 
send  for  you  and  promise  all  the  larnin  you  want !" 

"No,  no,  mother!"  exclaimed  John,  with  all  his 
father's  pride  and  stubbornness  shining  in  his  eyes, 
"I'll  ask  nothing  more  of  him.  I'll  lave  this 
counthry  and  strive  for  myself.  I'm  young  and 
strong,  and  the  sorrow  of  parting  from  you  is  all 
that  holds  me!" 

"Then,  John,"  she  cried,  "you'll  take  the  money 
anyhow,  for  its  sorra  little  ye'll  get  in  the  world 
without  the  payin'  for  it.  Ye'll  write  to  me  by  and 
by  how  all  is  with  ye.  Good-bye,  dear !  good- 
bye !" 

John  made  a  few  hasty  preparations  for  his 
journey ;  in  less  than  half  an  hour  he  had  turned 
his  back  on  the  old  home,  and  with  brimming  eyes 
and  heavy  heart  was  trudging  away. 

Youth  is  the  time  when  execution  follows  quickly 
on  resolve.  Inexperience  is  full  of  daring.  Hope, 
the  butterfly,  just  emerged  from  the  chrysalis,  with 
wings  as  yet  unabraded,  feels,  in  its  freshness  and 
beauty,  its  recent  liberation  from  darkness  and  con- 
finement, that  it  has  long  flights  before  it  in  the 
sunshine  of  life.  So  this  young  soul  started  on  his 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  187 

life-voyage  full  of  dreams  never  to  be  realized  — 
expectations  which  could  not  be  fulfilled. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  nearest  seaport.  Find- 
ing that  within  a  few  days  he  could  sail  for  America, 
he  wrote  some  hasty  lines  to  his  mother,  stating  his 
intention,  saying  he  would  write  her  again  from 
New  York. 

In  those  long  -  ago  days,  such  a  voyage  seldom 
consumed  less  time  than  three  months,  often  much 
longer.  Long  before  this  time  had  expired  John 
regretted  the  hasty  action  he  had  taken.  Thrown 
entirely  into  the  society  of  strangers,  and  suffering 
for  a  while  agonies  of  seasickness  on  his  self-in- 
flicted journey,  he  had  time  for  plenty  of  reflection. 
He  began  to  see  that  his  mother  was  right  in  coun- 
selling him  to  go  to  Dublin  for  a  period. 

Changes  of  a  similar  nature  took  place  in  his 
father.  For  a  few  days  the  old  man  went  about 
the  farm  very  proud  and  sullen  looking,  pretending 
to  take  no  notice  or  be  conscious  of  John's 
absence ;  after  a  while  he  became  affected  by  the 
grief  which  his  wife  could  not  conceal,  and  ques- 
tioned her  as  to  John's  whereabouts.  She  answered 
truly  that  she  did  not  know,  for  the  news  of  John's 
sailing  had  not  yet  arrived.  She  had  not  the  heart 
to  mention  to  her  husband  the  dreaded  name 
"America."  After  a  time  the  letter  came ;  then, 
indeed,  the  father  was  disconsolate,  for  the  thought 
that  his  son  would  take  so  extreme  a  step  never 
entered  his  head. 


1 88  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

It  was  too  late  now  for  regrets  on  either  side. 
Months  of  journeying,  and  the  broad  Atlantic  be- 
tween them,  rendered  reconciliation  of  no  avail. 
When  John  landed  in  New  York,  he  found  his  El- 
dorado was  nothing  more  than  a  dreadful  mass  of 
brick,  mortar  and  stone,  with  babel  sounds  within 
it,  with  restlessness,  and  confusion  everywhere  ;  to 
the  tired  boy  filled  with  memories  of  the  fresh 
greenness  of  his  rural  home,  it  seemed  at  first  a 
haunt  of  lunacy,  and  its  population  hurrying,  scold- 
ing maniacs.  He  had  little  time,  however,  to  mourn 
the  change,  for  necessity  forced  him  to  take  the 
first  employment  that  presented  itself.  Understand- 
ing the  care  of  horses  he  soon  found  occupation 
as  a  coachman,  his  obliging  manners,  youth,  health 
and  strength  proving  powerful  recommendations. 

After  reaching  New  York  he  wrote  his  mother 
at  once,  confiding  to  her  his  very  disagreeable  im- 
pressions regarding  America  generally,  with  New 
York  as  a  specimen ;  told  her  how  he  felt  that  he 
had  been  too  hasty  in  his  manner  of  leaving  home, 
but  he  would  try  to  secure  that  for  which  he  left, 
and  ended  by  sending  his  love  and  duty  to  his 
father. 

Thus  was  finished  that  simple  passage  in  John's 
life  ;  then  began  for  him  its  hand-to-hand  struggle. 
With  the  tenacity  of  purpose  inherent  in  his  dispo- 
sition, he  commenced  his  efforts  toward  a  liberal 
education.  For  a  man  employed  all  day  in  earn- 
ing what  would  feed  and  clothe  him,  this  was  not 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  189 

a  very  easy  matter,  yet  "free  education,"  the 
proudest,  truest  boast  of  the  American  citizen,  was 
there  for  the  looking  after,  even  for  this  poor  son 
of  Ireland.  He  found  that  by  stating  to  his  em- 
ployer the  nature  of  his  desires  he  could  procure 
lessons,  also  time  for  study,  in  the  evenings.  It 
was  slow  work,  however ;  it  took  many  months  of 
steady  application  to  make  him  feel  that  he  had 
gained  anything  at  all ;  study  combined  with  work 
so  filled  in  every  moment  of  his  time  that  it  had 
one  salutary  effect, — it  utterly  precluded  the  possi- 
bility of  being  exposed  to  those  temptations  which 
beset  a  young  man  thrown  entirely  upon  his  own 
companionship  and  resources.  With  mind  as  well 
as  time  so  entirely  occupied,  he  had  no  taste  for 
the  low  pleasures  so  often  indulged  in  by  men  of 
his  class  ;  his  intellect  was  so  active,  his  greed  for 
the  beloved  learning  so  intense,  that  months  cir- 
cled into  a  couple  of  years  before  any  interests  of 
a  more  absorbing  character  began  to  take  the  place 
of  those  with  which  he  left  Ireland.  In  the  mean 
time  his  father  wrote  kindly,  almost  contritely, 
begging  his  return,  telling  him  that  he  was  willing 
to  forego  bygones,  and  allow  him  the  boon  he  had 
asked.  But  pride,  that  powerful  factor  in  all  the 
evolutions  of  the  human  mind,  forbade  John  to 
listen  to  these  affectionate  invitations.  When  at 
last  a  fair-faced  girl,  with  whom  his  occupations 
sometimes  brought  him  in  contact,  began  to  show 
by  the  unequivocal  tokens  known  to  women,  her 


1 90  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

attachment  for  him,  the  cement  which  bound  him 
to  the  new  world  was  thoroughly  formed.  He 
promised,  however,  that  in  course  of  time  he  would 
return  to  visit  his  home,  bringing  with  him  one 
now  dearer  than  all.  Time  was  making  many 
things  clear  to  John  ;  he  saw  that  his  father's  esti- 
mate of  learning  as  to  its  usefulness  was  in  a  crude 
way  correct  in  the  main ;  of  course  he  felt  even 
now,  in  this  comparatively  short  time,  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  certain  superiority  over  his  father,  by 
reason  of  his  enlarged  knowledge  and  his  broader 
views,  but  "learning,"  beyond  a  certain  point, 
was  certainly  of  little  assistance  to  a  man  earning 
his  livelihood  —  for  that,  qualities  quite  different 
from  learning  seemed  to  be  required.  John's 
strong  practical  tendencies  led  him  inevitably  to 
these  deductions ;  his  was  the  active,  form  of  intel- 
lect, which  wished  to  put  all  it  knew  to  direct  use 
and  result ;  the  graces  of  learning  seemed  to  him 
not  strictly  necessary.  In  poetic  insight  he  was 
lacking;  he  found  it  difficult  to  place  in  his  mind 
and  store  away  that  for  which  he  might  never  have 
any  real  use.  Even  with  all  the  outward  adjuncts 
in  the  way  of  leisure  and  means,  he  would  never 
become  what  is  called  a  book -worm.  In  spite  of 
these  discoveries  he  kept  steadily  on  ;  all  things 
considered,  he  became  possessed  of  a  creditable 
amount  of  education.  Then  he  met  the  young 
woman  who  was  destined  to  be  the  partner  of  his 
struggles,  hopes  or  failures ;  following  this  came 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  19! 

months  of  beatitude.  This  earnest  soul,  moved  to 
its  depths  by  so  strong  a  feeling,  felt  great  capa- 
bilities stir  within  it. 

Learning  had  been  his  mistress,  she  was  so  no 
longer ;  she  should  now  become  his  tool  and 
should  aid  the  natural  activity  of  his  brain  to  pro- 
duce a  "home."  Here  in  this  new  world  he  would 
build  a  nest ;  all  that  man  could  do  to  make  that 
nest  an  Eden  should  be  done  by  him.  Under  the 
stimulus  of  this  powerful  incentive  his  business  tal- 
ents displayed  themselves.  Always  keen  to  see 
chances,  where  other  men  might  pass  by  unnotic- 
ing,  John  put  his  quickness  of  perception  to  use. 
His  first  employer,  at  the  end  of  a  year  and  a  half, 
changed  his  residence  to  one  of  the  western  cities, 
and  John  procured  employment  in  a  saloon  as  bar- 
tender. It  may  appear  strange  that  a  passion  for 
learning  should  at  last  culminate  in  an  occupation 
of  this  sort. 

So  great  are  the  eccentricities  of  circumstance, 
that  he  who  steps  forth  on  the  journey  of  life  as  a 
poet,  may  end  in  becoming  the  bright  particular 
star  of  an  ale  -  house  ;  that  one  who  essays  the  voy- 
age in  the  stanchest  craft  ever  built,  with  calm 
waters  beneath  him,  with  cloudless  sky  above  him, 
may  end  his  existence  beneath  a  stormy  sea,  or 
starve  upon  a  desert  isle.  John  left  home,  friends, 
comparative  affluence,  to  chase  and  secure  the 
butterfly  of  his  boyish  fancy,  fortunate  only  in  the 
fact  that  his  butterfly,  when  secured,  did  not  prove 


192  ALL  Ott  A  CHRISTA1AS 

a  total  illusion,  and  that  it  still  retained  some  of 
its  prismatic  colors,  which  first  allured  him. 

The  truth,  however,  remained,  that  he  became  a 
bartender  ;  a  "  slinger  of  drinks  "  for  thirsty  cus- 
tomers. The  man  who  was  proprietor  of  this  par- 
ticular saloon  was  a  countryman  of  John's.  He 
had,  to  speak  his  own  language,  "  been  keeping  his 
eye  on  the  young  fellow."  The  keen  business  man 
saw  that  John's  strength,  sobriety,  determination, 
would  make  him  a  powerful  auxiliary  in  a  business 
which  required  to  the  utmost  good  judgment. 
This  new  employer  regarded  the  world  as  a  place 
to  make  money  in.  Heretofore  his  bartenders 
seemed  as  fond  of  drinking  as  their  customers 
proved  to  be  ;  this  was  an  inconvenience  which 
sometimes  led  to  serious  and  anti-money-making 
consequences.  To  correct  this  he  engaged  John, 
at  a  salary  too  which  seemed  to  the  young  Irishman 
almost  munificent.  All  went  well ;  John  soon 
adapted  himself  to  his  new  occupation,  proving 
much  more  useful  than  his  employer  had  hoped  for. 

In  addition  to  his  fine  physical  build,  John  had 
qualities  of  mind  somewhat  exceptional.  He  ex- 
ercised a  strong,  though  unobtrusive  control  over 
his  fellow  men ;  he  had  that  inborn  power  by 
which  some  men  make  themselves  a  law  and  in- 
fluence in  the  council  chamber,  or  on  the  battle 
field. 

Keen  perceptions,  good  judgment,  total  absti- 
nence from  the  fiery  fluids  which  make  so  much  of 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  1 93 

this  life  a  hell,  made  him  invaluable  in  his  new  line 
of  work.  After  a  couple  of  years  his  employer 
offered  him  a  share  in  the  business  for  the  purpose 
of  retaining  him,  as  rival  firms  had  not  failed  to 
observe  John's  qualities  and  make  tempting  offers 
of  higher  salary  to  secure  him.  It  ended  in  John's 
being  a  controlling  power  where  he  had  begun  a 
poor  hireling. 

In  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  John  had  remark- 
able fortune;  all  his  ventures  turned  to  money.  This 
pleased  him  ;  not  because  he  had  anything  miserly 
in  his  nature,  but  that  money-making  was  actually 
an  instinct  with  him  ;  he  could  no  more  help  want- 
ing to  make  it  than  a  bee  can  help  wanting  to 
make  honey. 

John  married  ;  he  was  busy  and  happy  as  the 
day  was  long,  finding  the  months  circling  into 
years  all  too  quickly  now.  After  a  few  years  of 
married  life  he  found  that  a  disappointment  awaited 
him.  At  first  he  did  not  notice  or  care,  he  was  so 
happy  with  Mary ;  his  home  was  the  Eden  he  had 
planned;  but  no  childish  laughter  sounded  in  it, 
no  baby  hands  caressed  his  face.  All  he  had  under- 
taken to  do  he  had  prospered  in  beyond  his  hopes 
in  many  respects  ;  this  one  happiness  was  denied 
him.  His  nature  was  far  too  generous  to  let  the 
young  wife  see  that  he  considered  this  an  affliction. 

The  wheel  of  time  rolled  on,  bringing  its  sure 
changes.  When  a  lull  came  in  his  busy  life,  John 
took  his  wife  home  to  Ireland  with  him  for  a  visit 


194  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

to  the  old  people.  His  sisters  had  grown  out  of 
his  recollection  now;  both  married,  one  had  a  child 
clinging  about  her  knees;  his  father  was  getting  old 
and  failing,  the  dear  mother  whom  he  had  left  so 
young  and  fresh-looking  was  white-headed  now. 
The  visit  had  more  of  sadness  than  joy  in  it,  for 
John,  in  his  preoccupations,  had  not  realized 
what  the  inevitable  changes  of  the  years  would 
bring. 

He  had  formed  a  fashion  of  thinking  of  those 
at  home  as  looking  just  as  he  had  left  them.  What 
had  been  his  country  seemed  a  strange  land  to  him 
now.  They  begged  him  to  remain,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  do  it.  He  would  come  again  after 
a  few  years  and  see  them,  he  said,  then  once  more 
turned  his  face  toward  America.  The  ceaseless  wheel 
of  Time  rolled  on,  grinding  its  victims  as  it  rolled. 
John's  business  partner  was  laid  beneath  the  sod. 
John  became  sole  proprietor  of  the  establishment. 

After  a  time  his  wife  showed  signs  of  failing 
health.  The  doctors  advised  a  change  of  air.  John 
had  heard  a  great  deal  of  Chicago's  business  oppor- 
tunities :  he  sold  out  in  New  York,  gathering  his 
household  goods  about  him,  and  moved  westward. 

Now  the  wheel  of  time  was  making  heavy  marks 
across  John's  brows,  changing  the  rich  brown  of 
his  hair  and  beard  to  iron  gray.  Some  years  after 
his  removal  to  Chicago  he  was  called  to  Ireland  by 
his  father's  impending  death.  The  old  man  craved 
to  see  him  once  more,  and  have  John's  help  in  set- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  195 

tling  his  worldly  affairs.  The  old  mother,  who  had 
lost  one  of  her  daughters,  was  so  broken-hearted 
that  John  begged  her  after  the  father's  death  to  re- 
turn with  him  to  America  and  make  her  home 
there.  She  would  not  leave  the  country  of  her 
birth  —  the  graves  of  her  dead.  John,  by  his  fath- 
er's death,  received  quite  an  addition  to  the  worldly 
wealth  he  had  already  amassed.  This  addition, 
being  mostly  in  lands  and  improvements  thereon, 
he  did  not  care  to  touch  during  his  mother's  life, 
as  he  could  not  bear  to  make  sales  or  changes 
which  might  distress  her. 

At  the  time  our  second  chapter  opens,  the 
"ould"  man  alluded  to  by  Bridget  and  Annie  was 
the  young  John  whose  fortunes  we  have  been  fol- 
lowing. The  beloved  wife  whose  destiny  had  been 
joined  to  his  in  early  manhood  was  slowly 
fading  away.  Some  years  previously  John  and 
his  wife  met  and  befriended  Annie ;  her 
little  family  had  drifted  westward,  and  soon 
after  arriving  in  Chicago  her  parents  died, 
worn  out  by  hardships  in  their  advancing  years. 
John's  wife,  on  hearing  of  the  troubles  of  these 
Irish  people,  sought  them  out.  Being  kind  and 
charitable,  she  gave  Annie  a  home  with  herself 
and  John,  after  the  death  of  her  parents, 
whenever  the  young  woman  was  out  of  employ- 
ment, which  was  often,  as  Annie  hated  to  work 
for  "hire."  She  did  not  possess  the  sturdy  inde- 
pendence by  which  Bridget  dignified  labor;  hers 


1 96  ALL  CM   A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

was  a  disposition  which  loved  to  lean  against  some 
stronger  nature.  She  was  one  of  those  human 
inconsistencies  we  sometimes  meet,  totally  lacking 
in  that  subtle  understanding  which  knows  just 
where  truth  ends  and  falsehood  begins.  All  those 
she  came  to  know  found  themselves  soon  after 
helping  her  to  struggle  against  her  difficulties, 
lifting  her  bodily  as  it  were  over  the  hard  spots  in 
life,  and  feeling  well  rewarded  by  a  few  tear-drops 
from  the  melancholy  eyes,  or  a  murmured  "Thank 
you,"  as  she  drooped  her  graceful  head. 

Bridget  and  Jack  had  been  married  about  three 
years.  The  union  proved  eminently  happy ;  not 
a  ripple  disturbed  the  sea  of  their  contentment 
until  the  fatal  days  whose  events  we  are  about  to 
record.  A  year  after  Bridget's  marriage,  John 
Malone's  wife  died ;  then  Annie  felt  herself 
orphaned  a  second  time.  She  spent  a  great  deal 
of  her  spare  time  now  with  Bridget,  watching  with 
interest  the  comforts  and  happiness  of  the  young 
married  couple,  feeling  toward  them  as  a  sister 
would. 

After  the  death  of  the  old  man's  wife  his  home 
was  for  the  time  broken  up.  Bridget's  house  was 
now  Annie's  main  reliance  in  times  of  sickness  and 
discouragement,  these  discouragements  generally 
resulting  in  Annie's  throwing  up  her  employment 
for  the  time  being.  At  present  she  was  working 
as  second  girl  in  a  very  stylish  mansion  on  Michi- 
gan avenue,  where,  the  labor  being  light,  and 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  1 97 

having  the  charm  of  a  little  novelty,  she  was  for 
the  nonce  contented. 

Bridget  had  married  a  man  who  in  respect  to 
education  was  vastly  her  superior.  He  was  a  smart 
man  at  his  business,  too,  and  commanded  a  good 
salary.  Bridget  wasn't  half  as  wise  as  her  better 
half  in  a  book  learning  way,  but  yet  greatly  beyond 
him  in  good,  practical  "common  sense,"  and  in 
that  comely  head  of  hers  she  could,  as  she  expressed 
it,  "figure  out  many  things."  She  realized  to  the 
full  Jack's  youth,  smartness  and  activity.  She  also 
knew  that  these  things  might  not  last.  She  had 
been  brought  up  in  a  manner  which  made  her 
appreciate  money,  its  powers  and  the  necessity  for 
it.  She  said,  "A  time  of  sickness  and  death  may 
come.  I  must  save  and  be  careful,  so  that  Jack 
and  the  child  may  not  want." 

A  little  one-year-old  Jack  Rooney  was  now 
crawling  about  the  floor.  So  Bridget  kept  a  close 
watch  of  the  financial  situation,  and  after  constitut- 
ing herself  paymaster  and  general  manager  of  all 
expenditures,  saw  to  it  that  at  the  end  of  every 
month  there  was  always  a  surplus  to  be  put  in  bank. 
Quite  early  in  their  married  life  she  had  insisted 
that  they  should  open  a  savings  account,  this 
account  being  opened  in  Jack's  name,  "as,"  argued 
Bridget  to  herself,  "  it  ought  to  be,  for  sure  it's 
always  puttin'  money  in  and  not  takin'  it  out  that 
I'm  afther!  I  never  want  to  draw  a  cent  of  it 
without  consulting  Jack,  for  why  should  I  care  to 


198  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

spend  anything  without  asking  him  what  he  thought 
of  it?"  So  the  Rooney  family,  up  to  this  date, 
had  jogged  on  very  contentedly  indeed. 

Bridget's  housekeeping  was  the  pride  of  Jack's 
life,  her  capacity  for  saving  filled  him  with  aston- 
ishment and  admiration,  for  this  was  a  faculty 
Jack  himself  did  not  possess ;  in  fact  he  was  a 
jovial,  light-hearted  fellow,  held  in  high  esteem  by 
his  young  men  friends  and  adored  by  all  his 
numerous  relatives.  On  this  day,  where  our  story 
again  picks  up  the  fortunes  of  Bridget  and  Jack, 
poor  Bridget  had  received  a  terrible  revelation.  It 
was  a  day  devoted  to  a  general  rush  of  house- 
cleaning,  of  getting  odds  and  ends  together,  of 
having  matters  tidied  up  and  made  ready  for  an 
event  not  so  very  far  distant.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon, after  the  work  of  reconstruction  in  the 
household  department  had  come  to  a  close, 
Bridget  happened  to  be  looking  for  some  gar- 
ments in  an  upper  drawer  of  the  bureau,  when  her 
eyes  fell  on  a  little  book.  It  was  the  bank  book. 
Bridget  smiled,  then  giving  a  tired  sigh,  said  to 
herself,  "Well,  then,  I'll  sit  me  down  to  rest  a  bit, 
and  look  the  book  over." 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Bridget  took  more 
pleasure  in  looking  this  book  over  than  Jack  ever 
had  in  perusing  the  wildest  work  of  fiction. 

These  two  natures,  Jack's  and  Bridget's,  though 
so  widely  different  in  many  respects,  amalgamated 
well ;  she  regarding  his  higher  intellectual  attain- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  199 

ments  with  reverence ;  he  considering  this 
"common  sense"  element  of  her's  the  most  desir- 
able thing  in  the  world. 

Thus  poor  Bridget  took  the  bank  book  in  her 
hand  without  the  slightest  misgiving.  Her  faith 
in  Jack's  integrity  was  so  perfect,  she  never  thought 
of  going  to  any  considerable  expenditure  without 
consulting  him,  and  supposed,  poor  simple  dear, 
that  he  would  do  likewise  by  her.  She  had  not 
learned  yet  that  this  rule  between  husband  and  wife 
often  works  only  one  way.  As  she  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  little  book,  a  look  —  at  first  of  sur- 
prise—  flashed  over  her  face,  then  incredulity  — 
But  no  !  it  could  not  be— she  looked  again  and  again 
to  assure  herself ;  yes,  there  it  was.  Jack  had  actu- 
ally drawn  out  twenty-five  dollars  at  one  fell  swoop 
from  the  sacred  book,  and  had  never  mentioned 
the  fact  to  his  wife.  But  was  it  recent;  perhaps  he 
had  scarcely  had  time  to  remember  to  speak  to  her 
about  it ;  she  looked  again,  it  was  dated  two  weeks 
back.  Her  black  eyes  flashed — so  the  book  had 
been  removed,  this  amount  drawn,  the  book  quietly 
returned  to  its  usual  place,  and  not  one  word  said 
to  her. 

"Very  well,  Master  Jack,"  she  muttered,  "It's 
something  I'll  be  saying  to  ye." 

As  the  shades  of  night  were  falling  on  this  un- 
fortunate day,  Jack  was  wending  his  way  briskly 
along  Halsted  street  to  his  home ;  he  had  some 
packages  in  his  hand,  little  dainties  for  Bridget 


200-  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

and  the  child.  His  heart  was  bright  with  anticipa- 
tion of  the  happy  evening  awaiting  him.  In  fancy 
he  saw  Bridget  busied  about  the  neat  kitchen  pre- 
paring the  supper.  Jack  enjoyed  these  suppers 
with  all  the  zest  of  youth  and  health.  He  fancied, 
too,  the  chubby  face  of  the  beloved  little  Rooney 
freshly  scrubbed  to  bid  him  welcome,  and  the  fat 
dimpled  fingers  clasped  about  his  own.  "Ah!" 
thought  Jack,  "it's  the  happy  man  I  am,  with  such 
a  wife  and  child.  Was  ever  anyone  more  blest. 
I  think  I  can  see  those  big  eyes  of  hers  when  I  tell 
her  the  news  about  Annie ;  but  sure  I'll  not  be  too 
sudden  in  the  telling ;  these  women  are  queer 
creatures  anyhow.  It  might  spoil  the  supper.  I'll 
keep  it  to  myself  till  the  eatin's  over  and  the  child 
in  bed,  for  my  Bridget's  that  kind-hearted  that 
there'll  be  no  holding  her  when  she  knows  this 
thing." 

Thus  musing,  he  reached  his  own  doorway.  He 
felt  somewhat  surprised  to  hear  no  rush  of  foot- 
steps to  meet  him  as  he  opened  the  door ;  the  hall- 
way was  lighted,  but  very  still.  Jack  had  a  sensi- 
tive nature;  the  chill  of  impending  trouble  seemed 
to  fall  upon  him,  and  he  opened  the  inner  door 
leading  to  the  living  room  in  a  hurry  and  with 
some  alarm.  There  sat  Bridget  in  a  rocking  chair 
—  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  dilated;  in  a  corner  of 
the  room  the  little  Rooney  was  whimpering  dis- 
tressfully. The  supper  table  was  set,  but  the  air  of 
festivity  and  welcome,  which  always  attended  this 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  2ol 

simple  meal  with  the  Rooney  family,  was  totally 
wanting.  Jack  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  picture  of 
astonishment.  "  For  God's  sake,  Bridget!"  he  cried, 
"  what  has  happened  that  you  look  like  that  ?  Has 
the  child  hurt  himself?" 

He  darted  to  the  corner,  catching  the  child  up 
in  his  arms.  The  little  fellow  sobbed  loudly  and 
clung  to  his  father.  The  truth  is,  that  since 
Bridget's  discovery  of  Jack's  treachery  about  the 
bank  book,  the  young  Rooney  had  received  some 
most  unmerited  slaps  and  cross  words,  he  being  the 
only  present  outlet  for  his  mother's  injured  feelings. 

Jack  turned  to  Bridget  for  an  explanation  ;  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  bestowing  upon  him  a  look  which 
might  have  withered  him.  "Jack  Rooney  !"  she  said, 
"you're  a  miserable  scamp  !  a  low,  deceiving  fellow, 
you  are,  to  come  home  to  me,  your  wife,  with  smiles 
and  pleasant  words  afther  what  you've  done.  It's 
ashamed  you  should  be  to  look  me  in  the  face ! " 

Jack  did  look  her  in  the  face,  however,  with  an 
air  of  bewilderment  which  was  almost  absurd. 

"  After  what  I've  done  ! "  he  repeated.  At  this 
point  Jack  took  a  sort  of  rapid  moral  inventory  ; 
his  sins,  so  far  as  he  could  recall  in  the  hurry  of 
the  mind,  did  not  seem  so  great.  To  be  sure,  his 
memory  sometimes  served  him  tricks ;  he  forgot 
occasionally  embassies  that  Bridget  sent  him  on,  or 
trifles  that  she  commanded  him  to  bring  home- 
especially  if  it  was  something  for  himself.  It 
couldn't  be  that  she  thought  he  had  been  drinking, 


202  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

for  this  weakness,  easily  condoned  in  an  Irishman, 
was  something  Jack  was  not  addicted  to.  Of  course 
he  sometimes  took  a  friendly  glass  with  the  boys, 
but  never  to  an  extent  to  unbalance  him. 

"  Bridget  !  "  he  said,  "  what  have  I  done  that 
you  talk  to  me  like  this?  Why  should  I  be 
ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face?  It's  a  pretty 
welcome  you're  giving  a  poor  fellow  after  his  hard 
day's  work,  and  me  that  was  so  happy  in  the 
thoughts  of  you  and  the  child.  Here's  what  I 
brought  you."  He  threw  his  small  packages  vio- 
lently on  the  table.  "  But  I  suppose  you'll  not 
care  for  them  since  you're  so  angered  at  me." 

"The  way  you  talk,"  said  Bridget,  passionately, 
"  one  would  think  the  blame  was  on  my  side 
instead  of  yours.  But  there's  one  comfort  to  my 
soul,  as  our  Lady  knows ;  it  is,  that  /  never 
deceived  you,  Jack.  I  never  did  anything  but  what 
I  spoke  to  you  about  it.  I  —  I  loved  you  too 
much  to  ever  want  to  have  any  secrets  from  you. 
I'd  never  be  mean  enough  to  serve  you  any  dirty, 
deceitful  tricks,  as  you  have  me  !  " 

"  Deceitful  tricks  !  "  shouted  Jack,  now  thor- 
oughly aroused  in  his  turn  by  what  he  conceived 
to  be  unmerited  reproaches.  "  How  dare  you  say 
such  things  !  How  have  I  deceived  you  ?  It's 
lovin'  you  too  much  I've  been,  wastin'  my  heart 
upon  you,  and  now  you  fly  into  unreasonable 
tempers  with  me  !  Oh !  Mother  of  God  !  "  he 
groaned,  "  is  this  what  I  hurried  home  for  ?  " 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  203 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Bridget  with  deadly 
earnestness.  "  You'll  not  deny  the  work  of  your 
own  hands,  I'm  thinkin'  !  You'll  not  tell  me  that 
you  didn't,  like  a  sly  sneak,  go  to  the  bank  without 
one  word  to  me,  and  draw  out  twenty-five  dollars  ? 
Come  now ! "  she  continued,  her  eyes  flashing 
ominously,  "  you'll  not  deny  that,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  cried  Jack.  "  Is  that  all  you're 
making  this  fuss  about  ?  " 

He  looked  absolutely  relieved.  The  mistaken 
man  evidently  regarded  this  little  breach  of  confi- 
dence as  a  trifle.  Bridget  gazed  upon  him  with 
a  sort  of  strained  calmness. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Rooney,"  she  said,  "since  you 
think  so  lightly  of  it,  you'll  please  inform  me  what 
you  spent  the  money  for  ?" 

Jack  passed  his  hand  over  his  flushed  forehead 
in  a  confused  way. 

"  What  I  spent  it  for  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Oh  !  I 
spent  it  with  the  boys  ;  sure  they're  always  kind  to 
me  and  free  with  me,  and  it  isn't  stingy  I'd  be 
having  them  think  me." 

"With  the  boys!  "  'screamed  Bridget;  "he  tells 
me  that  he  spent  it  with  the  boys  !  Oh  !  Blessed 
Mary,  listen  to  that  !  when  I,  the  wife  of  his 
bosom,  toiled  and  pinched  to  save  it  !  I,  the 
mother  of  his  children  !" 

This  was  not  quite  correct,  only  one  little 
Rooney  adorned  the  social  circle,  though  indica- 
tions might  suggest  that  another  would  soon  be 


204  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

added,  but  Bridget  was  in  no  humor  to  choose  her 
words. 

"  I  must  slave  and  worry,"  she  continued, 
"wearing  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  save,  and  he 
sneaks  away  with  it  all  to  spend  on  the  boys ! 
Oh!  Oh!" 

At  this  juncture  loud  sobs  choked  her  utterance. 
Jack  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  tried  to  soothe 
her,  whilst  the  little  one,  aware  that  something  of 
an  earthquake  nature  was  progressing,  added  to  the 
distraction  by  vigorous  howling.  After  about 
fifteen  minutes  of  this  work  the  storm  showed  signs 
of  subsiding;  the  young  husband,  quite  contrite 
now,  vowed  never  to  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing 
again.  To  do  him  justice,  he  had  not  meant  any 
breach  of  confidence ;  it  was  a  matter  of  sheer 
carelessness,  and  a  habit  of  generosity  among  his 
comrades,  formed  in  those  early  days  before  he 
and  Bridget  became  one. 

Something  like  peace  settled  upon  the  small 
group  once  more ;  the  child,  smiling  with  cheeks 
yet  wet  with  tears,  began  to  prattle  and  investigate 
the  parcels.  Bridget  placed  the  evening  meal  upon 
the  table,  showing  occasional  traces  of  the  storm 
by  a  tumultuous  heaving  of  the  bosom  and  broken 
sobs.  Jack  tried  to  eat,  but  these  indications  of 
Bridget's  yet  unsettled  feelings  filled  him  with 
dread  lest  another  eruption  should  take  place.  A 
bright  thought  struck  him  ;  he  would  remove  all 
remembrance  of  trie  late  unpleasantness  by  giving 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  205 

the  news  he  had  intended  to  surprise  her  with 
under  happier  auspices.  Jack  saw  that  delay 
might  be  dangerous.  Nothing  could  hurt  the 
flavor  of  the  supper  now  ;  so  he  began. 

"  Bridget,  darlin'!  it's  something  strange  I'll  be 
tellin'  ye.  Something  very  surprising  !  " 

"What  may  that  be?"  said  Bridget,  listlessly ; 
"  it's  feared  I  am  that  there's  little  can  interest  me 
now,  Jack  ! " 

"Don't  talk  that  way,  mavourneen,"  said  Jack, 
coaxingly.  "Sure  you're  the  light  of  my  life.  It 
kills  me  to  see  you  feeling  badly.  Then  I'll  tell 
you.  I  met  old  Malone  this  afternoon,  and  he 
told  me  that  this  day  two  weeks  he  and  Annie  will 
be  married." 

Bridget  started  as  if  she  had  received  an  electric 
shock.  She  sprank  to  her  feet,  ran  across  the 
room,  and  took  down  a  shawl  hanging  there. 

"What  are  you  about?"  Jack  said  in  alarm. 
"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  to  see  Annie  this  minute.  I'll 
save  her  from  such  madness.  To  think  of  her 
marrying  a  man  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  Oh, 
Jack,  it  is  dreadful.  It  must  not  be." 

"But,  Bridget,"  he  remonstrated,  "you  can't  go 
so  far  after  all  you've  suffered  this  night." 

"It  isn't  far,"  she  answered,  "for  she'll  be  at 
Mrs.  Corrigan's  to-night,  and  that's  but  four 
blocks  away.  Let  me  go,  Jack  dear,"  continued 
the  impulsive  Irishwoman.  "Let  me  go  and  talk 


206  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

to  her.  Let  me  show  her  what  a  wicked  thing  it 
is  for  her  to  do.  Take  care  of  the  child,  it  isn't 
long  I'll  be  away." 

Before  Jack  could  interpose  another  word,  she 
had  thrown  the  shawl  over  her  head,  was  out  of  the 
door,  and  hastening  down  the  street.  After 
traversing  a  number  of  blocks  quite  unnoticed,  a 
woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head  being  a  familiar 
figure  in  those  thoroughfares,  she  halted  before 
one  of  the  dingy  looking  habitations,  indigenous 
to  that  region.  Entering  without  ceremony  the 
front  door,  she  pushed  her  way  into  a  low  ceil- 
inged  room,  where  a  number  of  women  sat  sewing 
and  chatting  together. 

"  Good  evening  to  you  all,"  said  Bridget,  hur- 
riedly ;  "where  is  Annie?" 

One  of  the  women  nodded  toward  a  door  at  the 
back  of  the  room.  Bridget  opened  it,  and  found 
herself  alone  with  the  girl  she  had  come  to  see. 
They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  few 
moments  without  speaking.  Each  had  an  intuition 
of  what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of  the  other. 
Annie  turned  very  pale,  and  seemed  to  brace  her- 
self as  if  for  a  struggle.  Bridget  spoke  first. 

"  Annie,"  she  exclaimed,  as  her  breath  came  in 
heavy  gasps,  "Jack  has  told  me  something  that  I 
don't  want  to  believe  is  true.  It  surely  can't  be 
that  you  are  wild  and  wicked  enough  to  intend 
marrying  a  man  old  enough  to  be  your  father?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Annie,  sullenly,  "  I  do.     He's  a 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  207 

good  man, — one  who  is  willing  and  able  to  take 
care  of  me.  I'm  tired  of  living  the  wretched  life 
of  kicking  about  from  one  service  to  another.  I'll 
marry  the  old  man  and  be  my  own  mistress!" 

"Oh!"  cried  Bridget,  "you  only  look  at  it  one 
way  Annie,  and  there's  two  sides  to  everything. 
You  harm  the  man  you  marry  as  well  as  yourself 
when  you  wed  without  love." 

"Love,"  said  Annie,  angrily,  "who  bothers 
about  love?  There's  no  such  expectation.  Malone 
is  too  sensible  a  man  to  look  for  it.  He  knows  it's 
not  in  nature.  He  only  wants  what  I  can  give, 
which  is  duty  and  faithfulness.  It's  no  use 
talking,  Bridget,  my  mind's  made  up  to  it." 

"You're  just  like  a  child  walking  in  the  dark," 
said  her  companion  anxiously.  "You  don't  real- 
ize what  you  are  undertaking.  There's  nothing 
but  love  can  take  you  through  some  of  the  trials  of 
married  life. 

Then  remembering  the  stormy  scene  at  her  own 
fireside  that  night,  she  added  passionately :  "  Be 
warned  in  time,  Annie!  Go  to  Malone;  tell  him 
all  about  the  young  fellow  you  loved  in  the  old 
country,  and  ask  him  if  he  wants  a  woman  whose 
heart  belongs  to  another.  Be  honest  with  him. 
He's  too  good  a  man  to  take  you  unless  you're 
perfectly  willing." 

"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Annie.  "I 
am  willing,  for  I'll  never  see  Dave  again,  so  why 
should  there  be  any  fuss  about  it.  As  for  telling 


208  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

the  old  man,  there's  small  need ;  the  past  is  dead 
and  done  with.  He  never  needs  to  know.  This 
day  two  weeks  we  shall  be  married,  and  you  and 
Jack  are  bidden  to  the  wedding." 

All  Bridget's  reasonings  and  entreaties  proved 
futile.  With  a  heavy  heart  she  soon  ^afterwards 
retraced  her  steps  homeward. 

V 

When  John  Malone  began  to  think  of  taking 
Annie  to  wife,  which  was- only  a  few  weeks  before 
the  marriage  was  decided  upon,  he  thought  of 
the  matter  from  quite  an  unlover-like  point  of  view. 
The  truth  was,  that  with  his  Mary  he  buried  the 
one  love  of  his  life.  This  in  his  inmost  soul  he 
knew.  If  Annie  had  not  been  left  a  charge  and 
trust  upon  him,  he  would  never  have  even  dreamed 
of  marrying  again.  His  wife,  upon  her  dying  bed, 
commended  Annie  to  his  care.  The  girl  had 
been  a  companion  to  the  sickly  woman  for  a  num- 
ber of  years.  John's  wife,  with  the  keen  insight 
the  dying  seem  to  possess,  was  aware  that  a  girl  of 
Annie's  temperament  was  peculiarly  liable  to  temp- 
tation and  misfortune.  The  girl's  utter  loneliness 
drew  strongly  upon  the  sympathies  of  the  old 
woman,  so  she  solemnly  charged  her  husband  to 
care  for  the  orphaned  girl,  and  let  no  harm  befall 
her  that  he  could  avert. 

After  his  wife's  demise  John's  home  became  a 
sorry  place  indeed.  The  old  woman  employed  by 
him  as  housekeeper  devoted  all  the  energy  she  had 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  209 

to  drawing  her  monthly  stipend  and  getting 
through  her  daily  duties  with  as  little  work  as  pos- 
sible. Annie,  whose  lively  step  and  pretty  figure 
had  been  such  an  adjunct  to  the  home-like  influ- 
ences, did  not  stop  in  his  house  at  all  now.  Under 
the  circumstances  it  might  have  seemed  an  impro- 
priety for  her  to  do  so.  She  gave  most  of  her  spare 
time  to  Bridget  and  some  of  her  other  female 
friends.  Thus  the  old  man,  whose  home  life  had 
been  so  much  to  him,  became  very  lonely.  He  had 
his  books,  his  pipe,  his  business  calculations,  but 
with  no  sympathetic  presence  near  these  things 
lost  their  charm. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  months  before  he 
thought  of  such  a  thing,  Annie  had  taken  into  very 
serious  consideration  the  idea  of  marrying  him, 
and  by  her  adroit  remarks  first  brought  such  a 
thought  to  him.  She  would  go  to  him  with  little 
tearful  complaints  about  her  hard  destiny.  Some- 
times she  would  blushingly  tell  him,  with  a  touch 
of  scorn,  too,  that  such  and  such  a  young  fellow 
had  asked  her  in  marriage.  "But,"  she  would  say, 
"  no  young  jackanapes  would  ever  get  her!  If  she 
ever  married,  she  would  want  a  steady,  sensible  man 
of  mature  years,  whom  she  could  look  up  to  and 
respect ;  that  she  despised  these  young  fellows  with 
their  conceit  and  selfishness." 

Now  Malone  knew,  by  what  his  wife  had  told 
him,  that  Annie  had  refused  several  offers  of  mar- 
riage. Not  knowing  anything  of  her  love  passages 


210  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

in  the  old  country,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Annie  was  likely  incapable  of  that  passion  in  its  ro- 
mantic phases.  So,  when  the  notion  of  marrying 
her  began  to  assume  tangible  shape,  he  saw  no  par- 
ticular objection  on  account  of  the  disparity  of 
years.  She  would  of  course  outlive  him.  He 
could  leave  her  a  handsome  provision  to  maintain 
her  in  comfort  all  her  life.  He  had  no  near  rela- 
tive now  in  the  wide  world  except  his  old  mother, 
soon  to  be  gathered  to  her  loved  dead.  In  marry- 
ing the  girl  he  would  wrong  no  near  ties,  but  on 
the  other  hand,  he  would  make  a  friendless 
woman  happy  and  independent,  besides  giving 
himself  a  reviving  interest  in  life. 

The  native  kindness  of  his  temperament  asserted 
itself.  The  unfortunate,  poor,  lonely  girl  had  the 
strongest  claims  upon  the  generosity  of  his  disposi- 
tion. Had  she  been  happy  —  well  to  do  —  he 
would  never  have  given  her  a  second  look  or  idea. 
Malone  brought  to  this  union  the  feelings  of  an  in- 
dulgent father  toward  the  girl  he  married.  In 
spite  of  Bridget's  prognostications,  the  early  part  of 
the  wedded  life  passed  along  with  the  greatest 
smoothness. 

Something  strange  had  happened  three  weeks 
before  the  marriage.  Annie  never  mentioned  this 
thing  to  Bridget.  It  chanced  that  Annie,  on  the 
death  of  her  mother,  had  stored  the  little  house- 
hold effects  owned  by  the  old  lady  in  Malone's 
house.  Time  slipped  by,  and  Annie  had  almost  for- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  21 1 

gotten  these  trifling  belongings  of  her  mother's  until 
three  weeks  before  the  wedding,  when  Malone  asked 
her  to  go  over  the  house  with  him,  and  see  what 
refurnishing  she  would  like  to  have  done,  for  the  old 
man  knew  that  a  young  woman  would  prefer  to  have 
things  bright  and  modern  about  her.  This  house 
itself  was  a  substantial  brick  one,  owned  by  Malone, 
who,  foreseeing  Chicago's  possible  growth,  had 
purchased  some  good  pieces  of  realty. 

He  said  to  Annie,  "  You'll1  have  to  go  over 
the  place  from  attic  to  cellar,  for  it  all  needs  look- 
ing after. 

In  a  small  attic  room  two  hair-covered  trunks, 
studded  with  brass  nails,  stood  in  a  corner,  while 
odd  articles  of  old-fashioned  furniture  filled  most 
of  the  remaining  space.  Annie  clasped  her  hands, 
the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  "Poor  old  Ireland!  " 
she  said,  "  how  it  brings  everything  back  to  me  to 
see  these  things  again.  I'll  take  a  look  through 
them  before  they're  moved."  So  after  Malone 
left  her,  she  knelt  down  by  the  old  trunks,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  her  mother's  death  looked 
over  their  contents. 

It  is  sad  work  at  best  to  handle  the  garments 
once  worn  by  one  passed  away  from  earth  for- 
ever ;  to  lift  the  trinkets  one  by  one,  once  so 
treasured  by  the  dead.  Many  a  sad  token  of 
her  childhood  and  early  girlhood  met  Annie's 
eyes ;  then  she  came  upon  a  small  package  of 
letters.  They  looked  quite  yellow  with  time  and 


212  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

their  long  incarceration  in  the  mouldy  old  trunk. 
She  turned  the  packet  carelessly  in  her  hand. 
"It's  best,"  she  thought,  "to  burn  written  things, 
they  are  no  longer  any  use,  but  mayhap  I'd 
better  look  them  through."  So  she  untied  the 
string  about  them.  She  found  them  to  be  mostly 
scrawling  letters  written  to  the  father  and  mother 
in  her  school-girl  days  by  herself ;  then  an 
envelope  which  seemed  literally  covered  by  black 
stamping,  which  denoted  that  it  had  been  for- 
warded through  many  postoffices. 

Annie  was  puzzled,  the  address  was  to  her 
mother,  the  envelope  was  dirty  and  ragged ;  this, 
too,  was  the  condition  of  the  letter  it  enclosed. 
She  opened  the  enclosure  with  trembling  fingers 
and  an  odd,  faint  feeling;  she  looked  at  the  sig- 
nature. It  was  that  of  a  stranger  to  her  —  a  man  ; 
the  letter  ran  thus  : 

NEW  YORK. 

DEAR  ANNIE, — A  friend  of  mine,  a  helper  here  in  the 
hospital,  writes  this  for  me.  They  tell  me  here  that  I  am 
dying,  so  I  must  try  and  get  a  line  to  you  before  I  am  no 
more.  I  came  to  this  country  to  search  for  you,  and  claim 
your  promise  to  be  my  wife.  Your  people  had  moved  to  some 
other  city,  I  could  find  no  trace  of  you.  I  hunted  everywhere, 
and  worried  so  that  at  last  I  fell  sick.  Have  been  in  this 
hospital  for  many  months. 

Last  night  the  doctors  told  me  I  couldn't  hold  out  much 
longer,  so,  darling,  this  is  my  last  good-bye.  I  trust  to  God 
and  the  Blessed  Mary  that  this  letter  may  reach  you.  Take 
with  it  the  love  of  him  who  was  yours  till  death. 

(Signed)  DAVE. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  213 

Annie's  tears  fell  fast.  He  had  been  true  to 
her  after  all.  He  had  not  forgotten  her  or  learned 
to  love  another  woman,  as  she  supposed.  Why 
her  mother  concealed  this  letter  from  her,  unless 
to  save  her  from  pain,  she  could  not  imagine ; 
but  here,  yellowed  by  age  and  travel,  the  proof  of 
David's  fealty  lay  in  her  hand. 

After  the  first  burst  of  grief  had  subsided,  a 
strange  calmness  came  over  her.  If  she  had 
experienced  any  shrinking  from  the  marriage  with 
Malone,  that  was  over  now.  Dave  gone  forever,  it 
mattered  very  little  with  whom  she  spent  her  life. 
In  telling  Bridget  she  would  never  see  Dave 
again,  she  told  what  this  letter  had  conveyed  to 
her.  From  this  time  forth  he  was  a  recollection, 
no  longer  a  living  hope. 

Annie  had  an  ease-loving  nature,  though  she 
gave  careful  supervision  to  her  household  matters, 
and  kept  Malone's^home  delightfully  neat  and 
charming  for  him.  She  enjoyed  to  the  full 
extent  the  many  accessories  to  comfort  with 
which  he  provided  her.  She  became  plump  and 
rosy -cheeked,  her  face  beamed  with  health.  At 
last  some  of  Bridget's  rugged  cheerfulness  seemed 
to  dawn  upon  her.  Malone  regarded  this 
improvement  with  delight.  He  would  look  upon 
her  proudly  and  say  inwardly:  "I  am  father, 
brother,  and  husband  to  her,  she  shall  henceforth 
have  all  in  me,  her  path  shall  be  as  easy  as 
money  and  carefulness  can  make  it." 


214  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

When  Bridget  would  run  over  for  a  friendly 
call  upon  them,  Annie  would  get  her  into  a 
corner  and  say,  archly:  "How  do  you  think  the 
old  man  gets  on  with  his  young  wife  ?  Does  it 
look  like  an  unhappy  marriage  ? " 

Then  Bridget,  smiling,  would  have  to  admit 
that  it  did  not.  Thus  a  year  slipped  by,  and  a 
happiness  Malone  had  never  dreamed  could  be  his 
came  upon  him  —  a  baby  boy  was  added  to  the 
household.  Here  in  his  old  age  came  something 
to  love  and  cherish  beyond  all  else ;  a  boy,  to 
inherit  the  worldly  gain,  the  houses  and  lands  he 
had  accumulated. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  would  never  tire  of 
looking  at  the  young,  fair -haired  mother  with 
her  baby  in  her  arms.  It  was  indeed  a  pretty 
picture,  and  Annie's  devotion  to  her  child,  and 
pride  in  it,  lovely  to  behold. 

Annie  and  Malone  would  call  on  Jack  and 
Bridget,  and  compare  notes  on  the  relative  charms 
of  the  young  Rooneys  and  infantile  Malone. 
Then  Jack  would  pinch  Bridget's  cheek  and  say, 
"See  now,  mavourneen,  what  came  of  all  your 
fretting ;  they're  just  as  happy  as  we  are  !  " 

But  Bridget  would  shake  her  head  gravely,  and 
say,  "No,  Jack,  not  quite." 

All  this  while  Malone  was  busy  and  successful. 
He  had  purchased  a  good  bit  of  ground  a  few 
minutes  walk  from  one  of  the  finest  parks,  and  had 
now  in  course  of  construction  upon  it  a  large  brick 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  215 

building  with  stone  facings.  This  building  was 
high  and  imposing  looking,  the  lower  story  fin- 
ished up  in  fine  style  as  a  saloon,  the  upper  stories 
arranged  in  elegant  apartments.  These  he  intend- 
ed to  have  Annie  furnish  to  suit  her  taste  as  soon 
as  the  building  was  completed. 

He  argued  that  this  place  was  a  good  invest- 
ment in  real  estate,  that  it  would  be  an  excellent 
business  stand,  as  it  stood  near  what  would  be  the 
terminus  of  the  cable  road,  and  a  place  connecting 
with  the  dummy  line  and  electric  road.  Added  to 
these  advantages,  the  location  was  very  healthy, 
which  would  make  it  just  the  thing  for  Annie  and 
the  babe,  particularly  in  the  heats  of  summer,  when 
the  fresh  winds  from  the  prairie  west  of  him  would 
refresh  them,  and  the  contiguous  greenness  and 
shade  of  the  park  be  equal  to  having  an  elaborate 
flower  garden  of  their  own.  He  often  drove  Annie 
out  to  see  what  progress  the  building  made, 
unfolding  to  her  during  these  drives  many  plans 
for  her  future  happiness. 

"  As  soon  as  we  get  settled  there,"  he  would 
say,  "you  shall  have  a  nice  little  carriage  and 
pony  of  your  own.  In  that  big  house  you  must 
have  additional  servants,  Annie,  for  my  little  wife 
must  not  work  too  hard.  Then  too,  you  need  a 
stout  young  girl  to  help  with  the  care  of  the  child. 
He's  getting  to  be  such  a  big  fellow." 

At  this  Malone  would  gaze  adoringly  upon  his 
child,  then  sigh  to  think  how  in  nature  it  could 


216  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

never  be  his  lot  to  see  that  child  grow  to  man- 
hood. 

Malone  was  still  in  robust  health,  stout  of  figure, 
red  cheeked,  bright  eyed  ;  his  hair  and  beard  of 
iron  gray  rather  improved  than  detracted  from  a 
countenance  which  had  always  been  handsome. 

His  look  of  capacity  and  honest  fearlessness 
was  as  pleasing  as  ever.  He  retained  that  control- 
ing  power  and  magnetism  which  made  him  so 
universally  liked  in  his  younger  days. 

Time  passed  uneventfully  on.  The  fine  house 
near  the  park  was  finished,  all  was  got  in  readiness 
for  its  occupants.  As  soon  as  they  moved  into  it 
comfortably,  there  was  a  grand  house  warming,  to 
which  all  the  Irish  friends  were  invited.  You  may 
be  sure  Bridget  and  Jack  appeared  there,  dressed 
in  their  best  to  do  honor  to  such  an  occasion  ;•  in 
fact  Bridget  was  so  gay  in  her  new  gown  and  red 
ribbons,  that  Jack  —  sly  fellow — whispered  to  her 
that  he  "was  falling  in  love  with  her  again," 
whereat  Bridget  pinched  his  ear  and  bade  him 
mind  his  manners.  The  young  Malone  was 
brought  out  and  exhibited  to  the  admiring  glances 
of  many  old  Irish  ladies,  who  pronounced  him  the 
"  finest  child  "  for  miles  around,  and  then  drank 
deeply  to  his  future  health  and  happiness.  This 
young  scion  of  the  house  was  now  strong  on  his 
legs,  running  about  the  fine  apartments  of  the  new 
mansion  with  a  liveliness  which  filled  his  father 
with  admiration  and  caused  the  young  mother 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  2 1 7 

some  alarm.     She  declared  that  for  mischief  there 
couldn't  be  a  child  on  earth  to  match  him. 

Annie  had  the  carriage  and  pony  now,  the 
extra  servants,  in  fact  every  necessity  and  comfort 
that  the  old  man  could  devise  for  her. 

*** 

A  woman  who  was  now  a  part  and  parcel  of 
Malone's  household  was  named  Nora  Nolan.  She 
was  ostensibly  the  cook,  but  wherever  Nora  went, 
she  made  herself  something  more  than  she  was 
called.  Though  termed  cook  —  in  itself  a  profes- 
sion which  is  growing  in  respect,  since  so  many 
aspire,  and  so  few  attain  proficiency  in  this  accom- 
plishment—  Nora  was  the  universal  eye  of  the 
establishment.  Her  senses  of  order,  cleanliness 
and  economy,  being  fully  equal  to  her  culinary 
ability,  made  a  strong  combination  in  one  indi- 
vidual. She  was,  as  she  herself  was  wont  to  say 
when  occasion  required,  "  A  woman  not  to  be 
trifled  with." 

In  personal  appearance  she  was  not  much, 
unless  wrinkles  can  be  counted  as  adornments,  she 
was  small,  thin,  and  decidedly  old.  No  one  in 
looking  at  her  could  fancy  a  time  when  she  might 
have  been  young,  or  even  passably  good  looking. 
From  this  diminutive  woman  issued  a  voice  so 
grandly  deep,  so  like  the  first  solemn  roll  of  an 
organ  in  some  dark  and  lofty  church,  that  the 
unused  listener  invariably  started  and  looked  about 
in  bewilderment.  Nora's  voice,  added  to  her 


2 1 8  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

tremendous  will  power,  made  her  undisputed  mis- 
tress in  any  kitchen  where  she  took  up  her  abiding 
place.  She  was  known  as  Mrs.  Nolan.  Young 
and  irreverent  persons  sometimes  hinted  a  doubt 
that  a  Mr.  Nolan  had  ever  existed  except  in  Nora's 
imagination,  that  is,  a  Nolan  married  to  Nora. 
Fancy  had  to  be  wild  indeed  to  bring  Nora  to  the 
mind  as  a  blushing  bride  during  any  period  of  her 
life. 

These  hints  were  never  breathed  to  Mrs.  Nolan 
herself,  no  living  soul  had  the  courage  to  do  that ; 
these  doubts  gained  color  from  the  fact  that  it  was 
only  an  average  of  twice  a  year  that  Nora  ever 
mentioned  the  defunct  Nolan.  These  periods — 
the  Fourth  of  July  holiday  and  Christmas  week — 
being  the  only  times  when  Nora  ever  relaxed  her 
silent  dignity,  for  she  was  a  woman  of  few  words, 
as  if,  knowing  the  power  of  her  voice,  she  was 
saving  it.  At  these  times  she  was  wont  to  seek  a 
slight  exhilaration  in  the  "flowing  bowl,"  then  she 
would  shed  a  few  tears  and  make  some  guttural 
remarks  about  that "  poor,  dead,  dacent  man  Nolan," 
then,  shaking  her  head  mournfully  as  if  to  imply 
some  mighty  romance  if  she  would  only  choose  to 
tell  it,  retire  into  the  silent  realms  of  thought. 

She  had  been  a  faithful  ruler  in  all  Malone's 
domestic  affairs  up  to  the  death  of  his  first  wife, 
that  is,  dating  from  the  taking  up  their  residence 
in  Chicago.  Malone  used  to  say  laughingly  that 
she  must  be  a  strictly  Chicagoan  growth,  one  of 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  219 

those  mushroom  anomalies  that  the  famous  city 
can  boast  of.  Nora's  antecedents  being  shrouded 
in  mystery  so  dense  and  silence  so  impenetrable, 
certainly  gave  plausibility  to  this  theory.  When 
John's  wife  was  buried  Nora  disappeared  with  this 
speech — a  long  one  for  her — to  John  :  "  Good-bye, 
Misther  Malone ;  it  would  be  improper  for  a  lone 
widdy  to  be  livin'  in  your  house  now."  With  this 
farewell,  pronounced  slowly  in  her  awful  voice,  she 
vanished  and  was  seen  no  more  by  Malone  till 
after  his  second  marriage. 

This  shows  conclusively  that  Mrs.  Nolan  had  a 
strong  sense  of  propriety,  though  she  need  not 
have  feared  the  breath  of  scandal,  her  appearance 
quite  precluded  the  possibility  of  even  the  veriest 
trifler  ever  speaking  of  her  in  such  a  connection. 
Mrs.  Nolan  was  heard  to  say  once— shortly  after 
this,  when  the  "flowing  bowl"  had  affected  her 
otherwise  stately  reasoning  powers — that  she  had 
taken  the  only  proper  step  left  to  a  lonely  woman 
like  her,  and  she  felt  sure  that  poor,  dacent  man 
Nolan  would  smile  in  his  grave,  God  rest  him,  to 
know  she  had  done  right ! 

One  morning,  a  few  weeks  after  Annie  and 
Malone  had  been  married,  the  cook,  a  stout,  red 
cheeked  Irishwoman,  ran  into  the  dining-room 
almost  breathless,  crying  out,  "Oh!  Mrs.  Malone, 
there  must  be  a  crazy  woman  in  the  kitchen,  a 
little  tiny  thing,  like  a  dried  leaf  she  is,  with  the 
most  dreadful  voice  in  the  world.  She  ran  in  at 


220  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

the  door,  which  was  standing  open  to  let  the  smoke 
out.  She  grabbed  the  skillet  from  my  hand  and 
said,  'Stand  aside,  you  miserable  thing,  you're 
ruining  these  pancakes  in  the  frying !'  and  there 
she  is,  turning  the  cakes  over  and  browning  them 
as  if  she  was  the  lord  of  everything." 

At  this  Malone  began  to  laugh.  "It  must  be 
Nora,"  he  said,  and  straightway  repaired  to  the 
kitchen.  The  instant  Nora  caught  sight  of  him, 
she  waved  him  back  with  a  lofty  gesture  of  her 
hand,  saying  in  her  unapproachable  voice,  "Wait 
till  I  serve  the  breakfast." 

From  this  moment  Nora  established  herself  in 
her  old  capacity  of  cook  par  excellence,  and  general 
manager  of  the  running  machinery  of  that  part  of 
the  housework  which  pertains  to  what  is  called  its 
drudgery.  From  the  minute  of  her  advent,  order, 
quietness  and  perfect  service  reigned. 

Annie,  knowing  Nora's  thorough  value  in  these 
respects,  was  right  glad  to  have  her  firmly  en- 
throned in  the  kitchen.  When  they  moved  into 
the  handsome  new  residence,  Nora  of  course  went 
with  them.  Her  management  and  industry  made 
the  working  part  of  the  new  home  as  noiseless  and 
complete  as  any  one  could  desire.  Thus  Mrs. 
Nolan  again  became  a  "power  in  the  land."  With 
such  a  dragon — albeit  a  small  one — as  Nora  to 
guard  his  domestic  treasures,  with  Annie  and  the 
boy  in  perfect  health,  with  his  business  matters 
thriving,  Malone  had  only  one  pressing  anxiety 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  221 

just  then  :  this  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  his 
difficulty  in  securing  a  bartender  who  could  be 
relied  upon.  Owing  to  his  varied  and  scattered 
business  interests,  frequent  absences  of  days,  some- 
times weeks,  at  a  time  from  his  saloon,  made  it 
imperative  that  he  should  leave  these  matters  in 
the  hands  of  some  one  who  could  be  depended 
upon. 

He  would  say  to  Annie,  "  If  I  could  have  the 
good  luck  to  get  a  man  in  the  bar-room  as  trust- 
worthy as  Nora  is  in  the  kitchen,  I'd  be  in 
clover." 

It  was  now  about  the  middle  of  December,  and 
Malone  was  obliged  to  go  to  New  York  on  a 
matter  of  pressing  importance.  Often  as  he  had 
performed  these  journeys,  he  could  not  remember 
to  have  had  such  an  intensely  anxious  feeling  as 
that  which  now  beset  him.  His  mind  naturally 
reverted  to  the  inefficiency  of  the  man  in  charge  of 
the  saloon  business. 

"If,"  he  thought,  "I  had  some  good  man  in 
place  of  that  careless  Joe,  it  might  not  fret  me  so 
much  just  now  to  leave  home.  However,  I'll  look 
about  among  my  old  friends  in  New  York,  and  see 
if  they  can  furnish  me  a  man  worth  his  salt." 

He  did  not  confide  to  Annie  his  unusual  de- 
pression and  anxiety,  thinking  that  it  might  worry 
her,  but  the  evening  prior  to  his  departure  he 
made  an  expedition  to  the  kitchen,  where,  finding 
Nora  alone,  he  said  to  her  with  great  earnestness, 


222  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

"I'm  off  to-morrow,  Nora,  on  a  journey.  You're 
the  only  one  on  top  of  earth  I  have  enough  faith 
in  to  leave  my  wife  and  boy  in  care  of.  Look 
after  them  well,  and  the  blessing  of  God  be  on 
you."  Nora  took  one  of  his  large  hands  in  her 
little  'shrivelled  palms,  and  pressing  it  kindly, 
answered  in  tones  low  for  her,  "I'll  die,  sir,  ere 
harm  shall  come  to  them.  Be  quite  aisy  in  your 
mind  on  that  score." 

Then  John  felt  somewhat  comforted.  When 
Nora  made  this  promise  she  did  so  with  her  whole 
soul,  for  there  was  no  living  being  so  reverenced 
by  her  as  John  Malone  was.  His  thorough  good- 
ness had  penetrated  to  the  depths  of  her  erratic 
mind  like  an  all-pervading  essence,  and  the  one 
fine  quality  of  her  strange  brain — a  dog-like 
devotion  and  tenacity  of  purpose  to  aid  the  object 
of  her  regard  —  made  her  promise  to  die  ere 
harm  should  befall  her  charge — a  literal  truth, 
to  be  proved  to  the  uttermost  if  necessary. 

Despite  Malone's  anxieties  all  went  well,  even 
the  shiftless  Joe  developing  better  qualities  under 
the  responsibility  imposed  upon  him  than  could 
have  been  expected. 

Annie  passed  the  time  in  John's  absence  by 
driving  over  more  frequently  than  usual  in  her 
neat  little  phaeton  to  call  on  Jack  and  Bridget, 
by  adorning  the  pretty  sitting-room  with  some 
fancy  articles  of  her  own  manufacture  designed  to 
surprise  her  husband  on  his  return,  and  playing 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE,  223 

with  her  child,  who,  with  his  rosy  cheeks,  golden 
curls  and  pretty  features,  was  what  Nora  declared 
"  A  angel  !  like  those  painted  around  the  altar!  " 

Thus  time  passed  till  the  evening  of  John's 
return,  previously  announced  by  telegraph  to  his 
wife  ;  then  great  activity  could  be  noted  in  the 
handsome  new  building.  Nora's  efforts  in  the 
way  of  supper  that  night  would  have  tempted  an 
anchorite.  Annie  and  the  child  appeared  in 
bright,  new  garments ;  good-for-nothing  Joe  gave 
an  extra  polish  to  the  glasses ;  even  Kitty  — 
Nora's  faithful,  and  it  must  be  confessed  often 
terrified,  coadjutor  —  donned  a  new  gown  with 
snowiest  of  aprons.  All  shone  out  bright,  cheer- 
ful and  welcoming. 

The  instant  Malone  arrived  the  observant 
Kitty  saw  that  he  was  not  alone.  A  young  man, 
tall  and  slender,  was  with  him. 

"  Mrs.  Nolan,"  cried  Kitty,  excitedly,  "  sure 
the  masther  has  a  gintleman  wid  him.  I  can't 
exactly  see  his  face,  but  it's  handsome  he  is,  I 
know!  " 

Mrs.  Nolan  regarded  the  giddy  assistant  with 
gloomy  silence.  John,  leaving  the  stranger  with 
Joe,  was  already  up-stairs  exchanging  greetings 
with  Annie,  and  smothering  the  boy  with  caresses. 

After  a  little  time  he  said,  "  I  'most  forgot  to 
tell  you,  Annie  dear,  the  good  luck  I've  had  at 
last.  I've  secured  a  man  to  help  me  here  that's 
after  my  own  heart.  True  us  gold  he  is,  and 


224  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

steady  as  the  sun.  Oh!  you  rascal"- — this  to 
the  young  Malone — "you  needn't  be  searching 
my  pockets  for  the  Christmas  presents  ;  they're 
in  a  big  bag  down  stairs.  I  think,  Annie,  it  was 
good  I  could  get  home  in  time  for  Christmas  with 
you.  It  seems  to  me,"  he  continued,  jokingly, 
"that  I'll  have  to  give  the  new  barkeeper  to  you 
for  your  Christmas  box,  Annie!  " 

"  I  know  by  that  nonsense,  John,  that  it's  some 
extravagant  thing  you've  been  buying  for  me," 
answered  Annie,  laughing,  "  How  often  must  I 
tell  you  that  you  shouldn't  deck  a  foolish  woman 
like  myself  with  jewels!  " 

John's  eyes  twinkled  with  pleasure.  "  Never 
mind!"  he  said,  "if  there's  aught  else  for  you, 
you'll  not  see  it  till  to-morrow  morning." 

When  supper  was  over  John  went  to  the  kitchen 
and  recommended  the  stranger  to  Nora's  kind- 
ness. "Feed  him  well,  Nora!  "  he  said.  "  He's  a 
good  young  fellow,  and  a  countryman  of  ours." 

On  returning  to  the  sitting  room  he  said : 
"  This  young  chap  that  I  picked  up  in  New  York 
is  poor  and  lonely,  Annie  ;  he  has  not  kith  or  kin 
this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  He  tells  me  that  he  has 
some  friends  here  who  came  over  before  he  did, 
but  he  has  never  been  able  to  find  them.  I  am 
sorry  for  him.  He  seems  very  sad  for  such  a 
young  man.  My  old  friends  spoke  highly  of  him 
as  being  steady  and  industrious.  I'll  have  him  up 
by  and  by  and  introduce  him  to  you.  How  thank- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  225 

ful  I  am  to  find  that  you  and  the  boy  kept  so  well 
in  my  absence.  Do  you  know,"  he  added,  ten- 
derly, "that  I  found  it  harder  to  leave  you  both 
this  time  than  ever  before  ?  But  my  mind's  easy 
now.  I'm  hoping,"  he  continued,  his  thoughts 
again  reverting  to  the  other  subject,  "  to  help  this 
young  fellow  along  if  he  proves  what  I  look  for  ; 
so  we'll  treat  him  sociably,  for  he's  not  quite  the 
common  sort,  like  that  senseless  Joe." 

John  being  a  reticent  man,  this  was  a  good  deal 
for  him  to  say  at  one  time,  but  Annie  was  not  lis- 
tening very  intently,  for  her  mind  was  occupied  by 
lively  speculations  as  to  what  manner  of  Christmas 
present  John  had  brought  her.  She  knew  by  past 
experiences  that  his  generosity  was  equal  to  any  tax 
his  affections  might  put  upon  it.  A  woman  who 
was  young,  healthy,  happy,  and  far  from  indiffer- 
ent to  her  personal  adornment,  was  likely  to  take 
considerable  interest  in  speculations  of  this  descrip- 
tion. A  short  time  after  this,  as  Annie  returned  to 
the  sitting  room,  having  just  bestowed  the  little 
one,  drowsy  with  sleep,  in  his  crib,  she  found  a 
stranger  occupying  a  chair  opposite  her  husband. 
The  stranger's  back  was  to  her,  but  she  supposed 
immediately  that  this  man  must  be  the  new  assist- 
ant John  had  secured.  John  looked  up  smilingly 
on  hearing  her  approach,  and  said,  quietly  rising 
as  he  spoke,  "  Let  me  introduce  to  you  my  wife." 

The  stranger  stood  up  and  faced  Annie.  The 
man  and  woman  looked  steadily  and  intently  upon 


226  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

each  other  as  they  had  looked  years  ago  beside 
that  stile  in  Ireland.  In  the  eyes  of  each  shone 
out  instant  remembrance  of  that  parting  hour. 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence  —  how  long  it 
seemed  —  then  a  hasty  and  cold  salutation  of 
bowed  heads  and  a  few  mumbled  words  from  Dave. 

Annie  felt  herself  sinking  into  a  chair  with  a 
strangely  faint  feeling,  yet  even  in  that  supreme 
moment  the  instinct  of  hiding  any  outward  mani- 
festation of  agitation  was  strong  within  her.  Why 
she  should  aim  at  concealment  of  any  former 
acquaintance  with  this  man  she  herself  could  not 
have  told.  There  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
not  have  said  to  her  husband,  "  I  have  met  this 
gentleman  before,  he  was  a  friend  of  mine  in  Ire- 
land." 

If  Dave  felt  any  surprise  at  her  course  in  affect- 
ing not  to  recognize  him,  he  was  conscious  that  it 
would  be  a  rudeness  in  him  to  call  their  early 
friendship  to  her  mind  by  any  spoken  word  ;  so, 
after  some  commonplace  remarks  upon  their  late 
journey  and  the  weather,  he  continued  the  con- 
versation with  Malone  which  Annie's  entrance  had 
interrupted.  In  a  short  time  Annie  stole,  softly, 
unnoticed  from  the  room.  She  sat  in  her  cham- 
ber window  in  the  dark,  looking  wearily  out  along 
the  lamp-lighted  street ;  the  wind  whistled  through 
the  bare-branched  trees,  cold  and  shrill ;  a  light 
tracery  of  frost  was  forming  on  the  window  panes  ; 
she  fancied  that  there  was  a  sense  of  desolation  on 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  227 

everything.  Here  was  Dave,  not  dead,  as  she  had 
for  nearly  three  years  supposed  him  to  be,  but  the 
Dave  of  her  youth,  only  paler,  thinner,  more 
gentle  and  refined  looking,  with  the  refinement  of 
grief.  His  faithful  and  fruitless  search  for  her  had 
laid  some  heavy  marks  about  his  brow  and  mouth. 

As  she  sat  there  thinking,  suddenly,  through 
the  heaviness  of  her  heart,  darted  one  dreadful 
thought — what  would  he  suppose!  He  found  her 
here  the  wife  of  another  man.  He  would  think 
that  she  had  not  loved  him!  The  very  supposition 
of  this  —  which  would  be  far  the  best  thing  under 
the  circumstances  for  Dave  to  believe  —  made  her 
feel  quite  wild.  Oh!  she  could  not  let  him  go  on 
thinking  that!  She  must  let  him  know  some  time 
that  she  had  supposed  him  dead,  though  here 
Annie  had  to  admit  to  herself  that  she  had  con- 
sented to  marry  Malone  before  she  received  what 
she  supposed  to  be  proof  of  Dave's  death. 

Within  the  large  house  that  night  two  people 
passed  the  long  hours  in  wakefulness.  Dave 
walked  his  room  incessantly,  living  over  in  mem- 
ory all  that  had  been  between  him  and  Annie  in 
early  youth.  He  recalled  the  agonies  of  his  long 
search  for  her,  the  fatality  which  attended  every 
effort  put  forth  to  find  her,  and  now  she  was  found 
—  a  married  woman,  and  lost  to  him  forever.  At 
this  his  grief  overpowered  him.  He  wished  he 
had  not  come  here.  It  would  have  been  better 
never  to  have  found  her  at  all.  This,  then,  was 


228  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

her  love  for  him!  She  had  not  been  faithful  like 
himself.  But  even  as  these  angry  thoughts  beset 
him  came  recollection  of  that  long  look  exchanged 
the  instant  of  their  meeting, — the  expression  of 
her  eyes,  which  betokened  anything  except  indiffer- 
ence. Then,  like  an  arrow,  he  was  pierced  by  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  married  to  an  old  man,  old 
enough  surely  to  be  her  father.  Why  should  he 
judge  her  ?  She  surely  never  wedded  a  man  of 
that  age  for  love!  How  could  he  know  what 
impelled  her  to  take  this  step.  No,  he  would  not 
let  himself  think  harshly,  but  yet  —  ought  he  to 
remain  here  ?  How  could  he  live  where  he  would 
see  her  often  ;  and  this  old  man,  who  was  so 
kind  to  him,  was  the  soul  of  honor  and  generosity. 
It  would  be  better  to  go  to  him,  frankly  tell  him 
all,  and  abide  by  what  the  old  man  thought  it  best 
for  him  to  do.  But  no,  he  couldn't  do  that  with- 
out Annie's  consent.  After  all,  why  should  he 
fret  on  this  score  ?  Annie,  as  a  married  woman, 
would  not  permit  herself  to  give  one  thought  to 
him.  They  would  live  in  the  same  house,  to  be 
sure,  but  quite  unheeding  each  other. 

Poor  Dave!  his  was  the  common  error  —  to 
dream  that  the  hopes  and  passions  of  years  would 
yield  thus,  even  to  what  seemed  the  inevitable.  So 
the  fatal  conclusion  was  arrived  at  —  that  he  would 
say  and  do  nothing  in  this  matter,  but,  trusting  to 
his  own  and  Annie's  integrity,  go  on  as  if  there  had 
never  been  &  past  in  their  lives. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  229 

As  Malone  slept  the  "  sleep  of  the  just  "  beside 
her,  Annie's  distracted  thoughts  traversed  the 
years  since  her  parting  from  Dave.  How  she 
cursed  the  day  that  she  had  been  weak  enough,  for 
the  sake  of  worldly  ease,  to  marry  Malone!  She, 
in  whom  a  lifetime  of  devotion  could  scarcely  com- 
pensate Malone  for  all  his  goodness  to  her,  did  not 
realize  what  he  had  done  for  her,  with  that  large 
gratitude  which  Dave  bestowed  upon  the  old  man 
after  one  short  week  of  acquaintance. 

"  No!"  she  cried  to  herself,  in  her  love  and 
anger,  "  what  right  had  he  to  marry  a  mere  girl 
like  me!  how  could  he  tell  but  what  some  time  I 
might  meet  and  love  a  young  man!" 

It  was  monstrous  to  think  of  giving  up  love  for 
her  whole  life,  and  for  what?  A  house  and  serv- 
ants! To  think  how  happy  she  could  be  with 
Dave.  Oh,  misery!  misery!  and  so  the  long  night 
wore  away. 

It  was  a  great  misfortune,  just  at  this  point  in 
the  affairs  of  the  family,  that  Mrs.  Nolan  should 
be  afflicted  by  one  of  those  periodical  lapses  from 
the  straight  path  to  which  she  was  sometimes  sub- 
ject. Had  she  been  what  she  called  "  herself," 
her  lynx  eyes  would  have  noted  a  rather  "  strained  " 
coldness  between  the  young  mistress  and  the  new 
member  of  the  household.  But  Nora,  though  out- 
wardly betraying  very  little  of  her  potations,  was, 
when  under  their  influence,  very  impervious  to 
impressions.  When  feeling  thus  her  dignity  was 


230  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

more  appalling,  but  her  intuitions  not  half  so 
keen.  Her  overscrupulous  care  of  the  kitchen  at 
these  times  caused  Kitty  many  retirements  into 
secret  places  to  shed  some  private  tears. 

"  Oh,  missus,"  Kitty  would  say  to  Mrs.  Malone, 
"  It's  hard  to  plase  her  when  she's  sober,  but  when 
she's  the  other  way,  divil  a  wan  of  me  can  do  it." 

Annie  had  no  great  tax  upon  her  self-control 
the  first  few  weeks,  as  she  saw  little  of  Dave,  he 
and  Malone  being  very  busy  in  the  saloon. 

Dave's  quick  perceptions  made  him  ready  to 
John's  hand  in  many  ways.  He  entered  into  all 
his  employer's  plans  with  the  sanguine  liveliness 
of  youth,  and  he  evinced  no  desire  whatever  for 
the  ordinary  pleasures  of  young  men,  seeming 
content  to  be  always  on  duty. 

When  some  weeks  had  passed  there  was  a  slow, 
almost  imperceptible  change  in  Annie's  daily  hab- 
its. She  had  been  lively  and  fond  of  visiting  the 
girl  companions  of  her  unmarried  days,  but  now 
she  spent  much  more  time  in  the  house,  devoting 
many  hours  to  some  intricate  kind  of  fancy  sew 
ing. 

The  young  Malone  had  taken  a  strong  liking 
to  the  stranger,  insisting  with  loud  screaming  upon 
spending  much  of  his  juvenile  time  down  stairs 
with  Dave  or  his  father  ;  so  Annie  would  often  go 
down  with  him  when  the  place  had  few  or  no  cus- 
tomers in  it,  and  sitting  behind  a  screen,  where 
the  winter  sun  slanted  its  rays  through  a  window 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  231 

near  her,  go  quietly  on  with  her  sewing,  now  and 
then  looking  up  to  admonish  the  child.  This 
became  her  daily  habit,  she  exchanged  scarcely  a 
word  with  Dave,  but  watched  him  shyly  from  under 
her  long  lashes.  He  would  go  on  with  his  usual 
avocations  as  if  totally  unconscious  of  her  presence, 
all  the  time  feeling  her  as  near  him  as  if  she  had 
been  standing  close  beside  him.  Thus  without 
words,  with  averted  glances,  these  two  derived  an 
odd  sort  of  happiness  from  being  in  the  same 
apartment. 

If  company — as  was  sometimes  the  case— de- 
tained Annie  upstairs  for  a  day,  Dave  would 
experience  a  keen  dejection,  then  when  she  return- 
ed with  that  interminable  sewing  in  her  hands, 
and  sat  quietly  on  the  far  side  of  the  room,  with 
the  sun  glinting  on  her  fair  head,  a  delicious  con- 
tentment would  steal  over  him ;  he  felt  that  he 
could  live  this  way  "forever,  satisfied  to  know  that 
she  was  near,  though  ever  so  unnoticing.  Annie 
appeared,  to  any  ordinary  observer,  wrapped  up  in 
her  child.  When  she  raised  her  eyes  it  was  to 
look  at  and  talk  to  him;  however  her  proximity  to 
Dave  he  was  never  absent  from  her  mind;  her  con- 
tentment was  not  in  the  same  ratio  as  Dave's,  one 
haunting  anxiety  was  always  present  to  her,  the 
anxiety  to  clear  herself  in  his  regard ;  right  or 
wrong,  she  would  speak  to  him  some  day  to  make 
him  understand  how  all  this  had  come  about. 

Dave  in  the  meantime  had  no  lack  of  kindness 


232  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

and  encouragement  from  the  others.  The  old 
man  treated  him  with  great  consideration.  The 
young  fellow  employed  under  Dave  to  assist  in  the 
laborious  work  of  the  place  quite  idolized  him, 
thinking  his  word  was  law  in  everything.  Kitty 
did  not  try  to  conceal  her  rather  ardent  regard  for 
him,  and  even  the  stern  Nora  unbent,  pronounc- 
ing him  "very  dacent  for  a  young  man." 

It  happened  one  day  as  Kitty  and  Nora  worked 
busily  near  each  other  that  Kitty  came  to  a  dead 
stop  in  her  employment  and  said,  evidently  to  her- 
self, though  speaking  aloud,  "  It's  a  wondher  to 
me  what  has  tuk  the  misthress;  its  never  so  quiet 
she  was  as  now,  since  I've  known  her." 

Nora  looked  up  with  an  expression  on  her  face 
which  made  Kitty  tremble.  "Kitty,"  she  said, 
sternly,  "It's  going  on  with  your  work  you  should 
be,  and  lave  alone  the  talk  about  your  betthers." 

Notwithstanding  this  Nora  took  a  mental  note. 
Her  observations  the  next  few  days  did  not  cor- 
roborate Kitty's  suggestions,  for  Annie  was  in  un- 
usually high  spirits,  owing  to  a  three -days  visit 
from  Bridget  and  the  young  Rooneys.  Jack 
being  in  the  country,  Bridget  was  lonely,  and  "  tuk 
the  chance  "  to  spend  a  little  time  with  the  Mai 
ones.  It  is  needless  to  state  that  Annie's  boy,  in 
conjunction  with  the  baby  Rooneys,  almost  made 
the  house  a  howling  wilderness,  Nora  being  quite 
beside  heiself  when  they  organized  foraging  trips 
to  the  kitchen. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  233 

During  these  days  Dave  saw  little  or  nothing 
of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  On  being  made  ac- 
quainted with  him  Bridget  bestowed  upon  him  one 
of  her  frank,  good-natured  smiles,  remarking  that 
he  must  be  much  the  same  age  as  Mr.  Rooney,  and 
that  she  hoped  her  husband  would  become  ac- 
quainted with  him  ;  to  which  kindness  Dave  re- 
sponded gratefully. 

The  months  ran  their  rapid  course  from  that 
eventful  Christmas  till  the  end  of  May,  yet  never 
by  word  or  look  did  Dave  strive  to  break  the  cold- 
ness and  silence  that  lay  between  him  and  Annie. 
As  she  furtively  looked  at  him  she  would  some- 
times think,  "  Perhaps  he  doesn't  care  for  me  any 
more,  perhaps  he  ceased  to  love  me  long  ago." 
But  something  within  her  repelled  that  idea.  At 
all  events,  if  he  no  longer  cared  for  her  in  that 
fashion,  he  certainly  did  not  seem  to  care  for  any 
one  else.  The  blandishments  of  the  pretty  rosy- 
cheeked  Kitty  appeared  to  fall  quite  harmless  on 
him.  So  far  as  could  be  seen,  there  was  no  space 
in  his  mind  for  anything  but  business. 

Malone  was  absent  frequently  three  or  four  days 
at  a  time  during  these  winter  months,  yet  Dave 
never  took  advantage  of  these  absences  to  speak 
one  word  to  Annie  beyond  the  commonplace  re- 
marks which  usually  passed  between  them.  This 
irritated  Annie  exceedingly  ;  she  surely  would  tell 
him  some  day  what  she  wanted  to,  but  she  was  too 
proud  to  break  into  his  cold  silence.  What  was 


234  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

the  matter  with  him — was  he  angry  or  indifferent? 
How  she  wished  that  she  could  know. 

The  spring  was  remarkably  early,  the  trees  be- 
gan to  show  a  tender  verdure,  the  grass  was  green, 
long  days  of  sunshine  coaxed  the  bashful  wild 
flowers  into  blooming  ;  little  blue  violets  began  to 
blossom  in  the  meadows  west  of  the  tall  house, 
nature  tripped  smilingly  about  her  work,  scattering 
wonders  as  she  went. 

Part  of  these  sunny  days  Annie  spent  in  the 
park  with  the  little  one.  She  found  a  bench  shel- 
tered by  tall  shrubs,  where  she  sat  with  book  or 
work  held  idly  in  her  hands  as  the  child  ran  about 
picking,  with  constantly  renewed  delight,  the  dan- 
delions. 

One  day,  as  she  sauntered  homeward  from  one 
of  these  expeditions,  Malone  came  out  of  the  house 
to  meet  her.  He  was  very  pale — there  was  a  look 
of  deep  trouble  in  his  eyes.  Annie  became  agitat- 
ed. She  asked  with  alarm  what  had  happened. 
Truth  was,  her  thoughts  flew  to  Dave — could  any- 
thing have  befallen  him? 

Malone  said  sadly,  "  I've  just  received  word  of 
my  mother'sjfcjeath.  You  know  what  that  means 
to  me,  Annie!  I  shall  have  to  go  to  Ireland  at 
once  ;  it  will  be  too  severe  a  journey  for  you  and 
the  child.  The  boy  must  be  older  and  stronger 
ere  we  take  him  across  the  ocean.  It  will  likely  be 
a  matter  of  months  before  I  can  return." 

Annie  felt  her  heart  give  a  refractory  bound,  a 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  235 

horrible  fear  had  attacked  her  when  Ireland  was 
mentioned  lest  Malone  would  expect  her  to  go  with 
him.  Some  hurried  preparations  for  departure  en- 
sued, then  a  number  of  consultations  with,  and 
directions  to,  Dave  relative  to  the  management  of 
the  business  ;  John  saying,  "  Dave,  I  know  you'll 
look  after  things  as  carefully  as  I  would  myself.  I 
trust  to  you  implicitly." 

Then  he  was  gone  ;  the  whole  thing  passing  so 
quickly  that  it  seemed  to  Annie  like  a  dream.  The 
suddenness  of  this  departure  had  left  her  no  time 
for  that  mechanical  arrangement  for  future  actions 
which  takes  place  in  almost  every  mind  when  any 
change  is  planned  which  makes  an  alteration  in 
the  daily  modes  of  life.  She  only  felt  to  her  heart's 
core  that  she  was  alone.  A  strange  joy  took 
possession  of  her.  Would  she  need  to  study  every 
action  and  look  now?  Must  she  continually  droop 
her  eyelids  for  fear  her  love  should  play  truant, 
and  peep  from  beneath  them?  Would  the  days 
ever  seem  so  long  now?  She  would  lose  that  rest- 
less fear  lest  in  her  dreams  she  might  call  aloud 
the  name  forever  in  her  thoughts.  Hail,  happy 
mornings,  and  thrice  happy  days!  She  was  free, 
if  only  a  few  months — yet  it  was  heaven  to  even  think 
of.  She  kissed  the  child  passionately,  murmuring, 
"  Yes,  little  one,  we  shall  spend  our  days  with  the 
sunshine  and  flowers ;  we  shall  be  alone  to 
think  and  dream  ;  the  summer  shall  be  ours,  ours 
only!" 


236  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

The  couple  of  weeks  succeeding  John's  leaving 
passed  uneventfully.  Dave  was  so  extremely  busy 
now  that  he  scarcely  glanced  up  when  Annie  passed 
through  the  place.  She  had  gradually  given  up 
sitting  inside  with  her  sewing,  spending  most  all 
the  bright  daytime  now  in  the  park  with  the  child 
whenever  the  weather  allowed. 

Dave  was  troubled  by  a  strange  uneasiness. 
He  felt  that  the  husband's  absence  made  it  incum- 
bent on  him  to  be  more  careful  than  ever  in  Annie's 
presence,  yet  in  spite  of  himself  she  seemed  to 
draw  him  :  he  was  literally  wrapped  around  by  her 
personality.  After  she  passed  through  the  door- 
way he  would  go  swiftly  in  that  direction,  to  feel 
that  his  feet  trod  the  same  spot  just  passed  by  her, 
than  suddenly  standing  still,  a  deep  blush  would 
suffuse  his  face,  as  he  turned  back  with  a  sigh. 
Annie's  mind  was  acting  upon  his  ;  her  steady  de- 
termination to  speak  to  him  affected  him,  though 
he  was  unconscious  of  the  cause. 

One  lovely  morning  in  June  Annie  and  the 
child  came  down,  as  usual,  attired  for  walking; 
Dave  stood  at  the  open  door.  As  she  came  toward 
him  his  heart  beat  violently.  Annie  paused  near 
him,  turning  her  eyes  full  upon  his,  her  eyes  say- 
ing plainly  as  eyes  can  talk,  "  Follow  me ;  I  must 
see  you ;  come," — then  she  walked  slowly  toward 
the  park. 

Dave  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  he  ought  not 
to  go,  but  should  he  not — perhaps  she  would  be 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  237 

angry.  Oh !  he  must  not  make  her  angry  with 
him  !  It  surely  could  be  no  great  sin  to  talk  with 
her  alone  just  once — only  once — for  he  was  quite 
sure  she  would  only  wish  to  see  him  this  one  time. 
He  ran  hurriedly  into  the  yard,  and  calling  in  the 
young  fellow  who  helped  him,  said,  "Here,  take 
charge  for  an  hour  or  two,  till  I  go  out  on  some 
business." 

Making  a  hasty  toilet,  he  started.  It  must  be 
confessed  that  he  took  a  very  roundabout  way  to 
go  a  short  distance.  His  sense  of  guilt  made  him 
fancy  that  the  very  pavements  had  eyes.  The  trees, 
too,  seemed  to  nod  to  each  other  as  he  passed  near 
them  and  whisper  "Traitor."  He  knew  well  the 
very  spot  where  Annie  would  be ;  in  his  occasional 
leisure  hours  the  child  had  led  him  to  it,  and 
patting  the  bench  affectionately,  had  claimed  it  as 
"mine  and  mamma's." 

Yes,  there  she  sat,  evidently  expecting  him.  As 
he  came  near  she  rose  to  her  feet,  a  deathly  pale- 
ness overspreading  her  countenance.  The  look  of 
love  and  anguish  that  he  gave  her  made  her  forget 
all  that  she  intended  to  say  to  him.  For  a  few 
moments  both  seemed  incapable  of  speech.  The 
child  was  playing  at  a  little  distance  among  the 
late  dandelions.  There  was  a  mellow  stillness  in 
the  warm  air,  broken  only  by  the  warbling  of  a 
thrush  close  by. 

At  last  Dave  spoke ;  there  was  reproach  in  the 
tone  of  his  deep  voice  as  he  said  sternly,  "  My 


238  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

years  of  searching  for  you  have  ended  in  this ; 
from  sickness,  only  lived  through  by  the  hope  of 
meeting  you,  from  sorrow  and  poverty,  I  came  here 
to  find  that  the  woman  who  promised  to  be  true 
to  me  had  forgotten  all  and  married  another  man." 

He  paused,  his  chest  heaved;  there  was  a  chok- 
ing sensation  in  his  throat.  Dave  had  not  intended 
to  speak  to  Annie  so  severely.  In  his  secret  thought 
he  was  only  too  kind,  too  forgiving  to  her ;  but  the 
sight  of  her,  pale  and  drooping  before  him,  made 
him  thoroughly  conscious  of  his  own  weakness. 
He  hastened  to  affect  a  greater  sternness  than  he 
felt,  in  order  to  mask  his  struggle  between  love 
and  duty.  Annie  was  so  overpowered  by  his  tone 
that  she  could  only  reply  by  putting  her  hands  out 
toward  him  with  a  deprecating  motion,  then  cover- 
ing her  face  with  them,  burst  into  a  passion  of 
sobs  and  tears.  Dave,  in  his  turn  overcome  by  her 
unexpected  emotion,  conducted  her  to  the  bench, 
and  gently  compelling  her  to  sit  down,  stood 
anxiously  and  patiently  before  her. 

"Dave,"  she  sobbed,  "I  always  loved  you;  I 
love  you  now." 

"Annie,"  he  answered,  with  sudden  determina- 
tion, "you  have  no  right  to  love  me  now,  nor  I  to 
hear  you  say  so.  It  is  just  torturing  you  and  my- 
self to  talk  about  these  things.  Let  us  be  strangers 
to  each  other,  as  we  have  been  all  these  months 
past.  We  will  go  our  ways,  noticing  each  other  no 
more." 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  239 

"No!"  cried  Annie,  wildly,  "you  shall  not  go 
away  till  I  have  told  you  all ;  you  shall  sit  here 
beside  me,  and  know  hew  I  thought  you  dead." 

Dave  started  violently.  "You  thought  me 
dead !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  said  Annie  eagerly,  as  she  saw  his  reso- 
lution to  leave  her  was  quite  shaken;  "sit  down 
and  listen.  Oh  !  I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you." 

Dave  sat  down  and  listened  as  Annie  told  the 
story  of  those  memorable  years,  toning  down  her 
part  in  all — adroitly,  as  women  do.  Months  of 
repression  gave  an  impetus  to  the  conversation. 
Time  passed  unheeded.  The  child,  wearied  by 
play,  crept  unnoticed  to  Annie's  feet,  and  leaning 
his  curly  head  against  her  dress,  fell  fast  asleep. 
At  last  Annie,  with  a  sudden  recollection,  looked 
at  her  watch.  Two  hours  had  passed.  When  Dave 
saw  the  time  he  was  startled ;  he  rose  hurriedly. 

"This  will  not  do,"  he  said,  "  I  must  go  back 
at  once." 

"Not  now,"  cried  Annie;  I  haven't  told  you 
half  yet." 

"And  I,"  said  Dave,  reproachfully,  "have  told 
you  actually  nothing." 

"Then,  come  again,  Dave;  don't  make  me 
wretched  by  saying  no.  What  harm  is  there  in 
our  talking  sometimes  over  what  is  done  with  for 
ever?" 

It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  say  no  to  a  woman  who 
loves  him,  but  when  he  loves  her . 


240  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Dave  strode  hurriedly  away,  but  Annie  knew  he 
would  come  again.  She  was  intensely  conscious 
of  her  power  over  him.  The  summer  weeks  seemed 
to  have  borrowed  wings  with  which  to  fly  so  fast. 
The  meetings  in  the  park  became  a  customary 
thing,  the  only  change  being  that  they  increased 
in  frequency,  and  in  a  short  time  a  more  distant 
and  sheltered  bench  was  found.  In  the  large 
house  all  went  about  their  usual  duties  and 
pleasures  without  a  suspicion  of  the  real  state  of 
affairs,  Annie's  arrangements  for  secrecy  being 
perfect. 

In  the  presence  of  others  her  manner  toward 
Dave  relaxed  a  little  from  its  former  stern  severity; 
she  would  chat  with  him  carelessly  now  and  then. 
After  awhile  he  was  allowed  to  drive  her  and  the 
child  out ;  but  Annie  frequently  now  drove  out 
alone,  leaving  the  child  in  care  of  Nora  and  Kitty. 
These  changes  took  place  so  gradually  that  they 
attracted  no  attention,  all  knowing  that  Dave  had 
been  left  in  sole  charge  of  the  business.  It  was 
natural  that  he  should  have  many  things  to  speak 
of  to  the  mistress. 

When  Annie  drove  out  alone,  Dave  frequently 
joined  her  in  some  retired  side  street,  then  they 
would  drive  through  unfrequented  roads,  with 
ample  time  for  these  unending  conversations. 

As  all  this  was  going  on  Annie  saw  little  of  Bridget, 
the  Rooney  family  being  just  then  in  a  state  of  trans- 
ition, for  the  precious  bank  account  —  since  a  cer- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  241 

tain  evening  never  interfered  with  by  Jack  —  had 
at  last  borne  fruit.  After  mature  consideration  the 
young  couple  concluded  to  invest  these  savings  in 
a  home  of  their  own,  with  —  as  Jack  said,  gayly — 
"a  fine  yard  to  it,  where  the  young  Rooneys  should 
play  in  the  dirt  as  much  as  they  wanted  to."  Thus 
it  happened  that  Bridget,  busied  with  moving  into 
and  decorating  her  little  cottage,  and  making  extra- 
ordinary plans  for  the  beautifying  of  the  "  yard," 
had  been  unable  to  call  at  the  big  house  as  often  as 
heretofore.  The  appearance,  too,  of  another  young 
Rooney  since  the  early  part  of  the  Spring,  kept 
Bridget  closely  at  home,  so  that,  as  Annie  said,  the 
"calling"  had  to  be  all  on  one  side. 

One  day,  about  the  end  of  August,  Annie  de- 
clared her  intention  of  going  over  to  see  how 
Bridget  was  getting  along.  She  took  the  child  with 
her  —  Dave  driving.  As  they  approached  the  cot- 
tage—  a  neat  little  place  with  a  small  lawn  in  front 
adorned  by  some  flower  beds  —  sounds  of  laughter 
struck  upon  their  ears.  Dave  assisted  Annie  and 
the  child  out,  then  securing  the  horse,  quietly  fol- 
lowed them  to  the  door  step  where  a  pretty  picture 
presented  itself.  Jack  was  seated  on  the  floor  laugh- 
ing immoderately,  while  two  young  Rooneys  of  the 
male  persuasion,  with  little  fists  clinched,  pum- 
meled  their  father  in  sham  fight.  Near  by  sat 
Bridget  in  a  low  rocking  chair  with  the  newest 
infant  in  her  arms,  a  lovely  little  girl,  who  was 
looking  at  the  good-natured  belligerents  on  the 


242  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

floor  with  baby  terror.  Bridget  was  gazing  upon 
the  happy  group  with  love  and  admiration  when, 
looking  up,  she  beheld  Annie  standing  in  the 
doorway.  There  was  something  in  Annie's  face, 
as  she  stood  there  surveying  the  group,  so  different 
from  its  usual  placid  expression,  that  Bridget  felt 
alarmed. 

Jack  sprang  to  his  feet  to  welcome  her,  whilst 
the  young  Rooneys  swarmed  about  the  little  Ma- 
lone.  Jack  was  soon  engaged  in  converse  with 
Dave,  whilst  Bridget,  hastily  depositing  the  sleep- 
ing infant  in  its  crib,  turned  a  look  of  questioning 
upon  Annie.  "  Well,"  said  Annie,  in  a  peculiarly 
hard  tone,  "  I  thought  I'd  take  a  drive  over  to  see 
you  in  your  new  home,  Bridget.  I  needn't  ask  you 
if  you're  happy  !  you,  with  your  young  husband 
and  little  children  all  about  you  !  God  knows  you 
have  enough  to  make  you  happy  ! " 

"Oh  !  for  the  matter  of  that,"  answered  Bridget 
carelessly,  but  with  a  feline  glitter  in  her  eyes, 
"you're  the  woman  who  should  be  talking  of  happi- 
ness ;  you  who  can  wear  gems,  and  drive  about 
like  a  queen  in  your  own  carriage  ;  you  with  a  hus- 
band who  dotes  upon  you,  and  a  child  as  beautiful 
as  a  picture !" 

On  hearing  this  Annie  made  a  strong  effort  at 
self  control,  but  the  heaving  of  her  bosom — the 
look  of  anguish  in  her  eyes — could  not  escape  the 
observation  of  the  woman  who  had  known  her  from 
early  girlhood.  Bridget  turned  her  glance  from 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  243 

Annie  to  Dave,  who  sat  a  little  distance  off  talking 
to  her  husband.  There  he  was,  slender,  handsome, 
owner  of  the  "  indescribable "  charm  of  youth. 
Bridget  possessed  remarkable  perspicacity.  In  an 
instant  she  knew  nearly  all. 

"Annie,"  she  said,  with  a  commanding  look, 
"  come  here." 

She  led  her  into  an  adjoining  room  and  closed 
the  door  ;  then  she  turned  upon  her  a  flashing 
glance,  and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  quite  hoarse 
from  anger,  said  :  "I  have  known  and  loved  you  as 
girl  and  woman  for  many  years  ;  if  ever  some  great 
trouble  overtakes  you,  come  to  me,  I  shall  be  your 
friend  till  death  !  but  never  —  so  long  as  you  and  I 
shall  live  —  never  dare  to  bring  that  man  to  my 
house  again !  Whatever  secret  you  have  is  safe 
with  me,  but  never  bring  that  man  again  !" 

Annie  trembled  violently,  but  made  no  reply. 
Bridget  returned  immediately  to  the  other  room, 
leaving  her  alone  to  recover  her  composure. 

The  men  talked  on,  unaware  of  the  tornado 
blast  which  had  whistled  past  them.  Bridget,  when 
unobserved,  cast  some  lightning  glances  upon 
Dave,  expressive  of  strong  disfavor.  Annie  soon 
ended  the  call  by  declaring  that  they  really  couldn't 
remain  any  longer,  then,  escorted  to  the  phaeton 
by  Jack  and  the  admiring  young  Rooneys,  took 
their  departure. 

Dave  was  distressed  and  greatly  surprised  on 
their  way  homeward  to  find  Annie  taciturn  and 


244  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

gloomy.  Having  yielded  to  his  passion  and  her 
own,  his  conscience,  once  so  active,  seemed  steeped 
in  an  intoxication  of  happiness.  This  was  the  first 
time  she  had  seemed  to  feel  unhappy  when  with 
him  ;  he  regarded  her  with  anxious  looks.  Of 
course  he  could  form  no  idea  of  what  was  passing  in 
her  mind.  Those  few  dreadful  words  of  Bridget's 
had  given  Annie  the  first  realizing  sense  of  the 
degradation  of  her  position.  She  recalled  bitterly 
now  the  warnings  Bridget  forced  upon  her  before 
her  marriage.  She  had  never  told  Dave  anything 
of  that.  In  the  madness  of  her  love  for  him,  she 
had  not  told  anything  which  could  make  her  incon- 
stancy seem  other  than  the  force  of  circumstances. 
She  was  deeply  angered  with  herself  for  having  in 
that  unguarded  moment  dropped  the  mask  —  and 
before  Bridget  of  all  women  ;  Bridget,  who  had 
tried  so  hard  to  save  her  from  the  chance  of  this. 
Dave  tried  vainly  to  elicit  from  her  the  cause  of  her 
changed  manner.  This  day  began  between  them 
misunderstandings  and  quarrels  which  embittered 
months  to  come. 

Malone  had  written  to  both  Annie  and  Dave 
very  frequently,  detailing  to  Annie  the  delays  and 
annoyances  he  met  with  in  selling  off  the  property 
in  the  old  country,  telling  her  that  he  felt  it  would 
be  better  to  remain  long  enough  to  convert  all  this 
into  money,  for  re-investment  in  Chicago,  than  to 
leave  any  of  his  pecuniary  interests  in  Ireland  in 
the  hands  of  agents.  He  hoped  to  return  in  Sep- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  245 

tember.  More  delays  occurred.  Finally  Malone 
wrote  that  he  would  surely  be  home  by  the  end  of 
September.  When  Dave  knew  this,  his  brow  was 
like  a  thunder  cloud  ;  in  consequence  of  the  near- 
ness of  the  husband's  return  a  fierce  quarrel  en- 
sued between  the  lovers. 

The  idea  that  Dave  had  entertained  since  the 
hour  of  their  downfall,  now  took  tangible  shape, 
leading  to  those  recriminations  which  are  the  bane 
of  illicit  connections.  Dave  besought  Annie  to  fly 
with  him,  to  leave  her  husband  forever.  He  had 
remotely  hinted  at  this  before,  but  now,  rendered 
desperate  by  the  thought  of  John's  return,  he  urged 
this  step  upon  her,  pointing  out  what  their  mutual 
misery  would  be  under  the  circumstances  of  having 
her  husband  with  them  continually,  arguing  that 
having  sinned  so  far,  they  could  not  do  worse.  In 
answer  to  all  this  Annie  pointed  to  her  child.  She 
would  not  give  up  her  child.  Dave  said  they  would 
take  the  child  with  them.  Annie  reminded  him 
that  Malone  would  never  part  with  the  little  one, 
but  would  follow  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  recover 
him  ;  that  he  could  by  law  take  him  from  her.  The 
quarrel  was  protracted  and  bitter,  ending  in  Annie 
remaining  firm  in  her  determination,  in  Dave 
foiled  and  desperately  angry,  threatening  to  leave 
her  entirely  and  never  to  see  her  face  again!  since 
she  loved  her  child  better  than  him  !  at  which, 
Annie  weeping  and  reproaching  him,  the  conversa- 
tion ended.  These  angry  scenes  only  concluded, 


246  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

or  rather,  it  might  be  said,  were  suspended,  by  the 
return  of  Malone.  The  pressing  necessity  for  con- 
cealment produced  a  lull  in  the  storm  of  irritated 
feeling,  and  things  settled  down  in  their  old  time 
regime. 

Malone  was  delighted  to  return.  He  had  so 
much  to  tell  and  hear  about,  he  saw  no  indication 
of  the  blight  which  had  fallen  upon  his  domestic 
life.  He  was  pleased  by  the  manner  in  which  Dave 
had  attended  to  the  business  in  his  absence,  for 
Dave  had  faithfully  endeavored  to  make  up  for 
lapses  in  other  respects  by  keeping  all  the  business 
well  looked  after.  Malone's  thanks  and  praises 
seemed  like  searing  irons  to  Dave.  He  listened 
with  an  apathy  which  concealed  raging  fires  of  self- 
reproach.  His  opportunities  for  seeing  Annie 
privately  seldom  gave  him  a  chance  now  to  express 
to  her  the  distractions  of  his  mind.  The  Christmas 
holidays  again  approaching,  took  his  remembrance 
to  that  time  a  year  ago  when  the  love  of  his  life 
stood  so  unexpectedly  before  him  the  wife  of  another. 
Again  and  again,  he  asked  himself  why  he  had  not 
followed  the  impulse  of  his  soul,  which  bade  him 
then  to  either  tell  the  truth  to  Malone  or  fly.  What 
could  excuse  the  folly  of  actually  keeping  himself 
in  the  way  of  temptation.  All  this  agony  and 
shame  would  have  been  prevented,  and  now  he 
could  not  leave  Annie  — no,  he  would  try  yet  to 
undermine  her  resolution,  and  make  her  run 
away  with  him.  Cur  that  he  was  !  he  felt  that  he 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  247 

could  not  do  anything    worse   than  he  had  done 
already  ! 

Life  now  became  a  veritable  hell  to  the  guilty 
ones.  Malone  aggravated  their  torments  by  his 
unvarying  kindness,  which  made  Annie  feel  that  it 
would  be  death  itself  to  have  him  know  the  terrible 
reality.  The  winter  was  passing  away,  and  some- 
how, when  Annie  sat  near  the  sunny  window  and 
sewed,  Dave,  though  he  loved  her  madly  as  ever, 
no  longer  saw  the  aureole  around  her  head,  and 
she  had  lost  the  timid  joy  with  which  she  used  to 
look  at  him  and  listen  to  his  voice.  There  had 
been  a  happiness  in  those  days  of  innocence,  which 
no  after  raptures  could  equal.  They  knew  that 
now,  both  of  them ;  and  yet  the  chain  that  bound 
them  heart  to  heart  grew  stronger  with  the  knowl- 
edge, as  sorrow  and  despair,  twin  sisters  of  sin,  led 
them  ever  onward  toward  the  shadowed  path  ahead. 

Now  Spring  came  on  again  —  the  careless,  happy 
Spring — smiling  upon  their  agonies  with  that  sun- 
shine which  a  year  ago  had  led  them  by  pleasant 
places  to  taste  the  sugared  sweets  of  love.  Malone 
had  often  spoken  to  Annie  of  his  good  fortune  in 
securing  such  a  man  as  Dave,  who  had  more  than 
met  all  his  expectations. 

"If  he  keeps  on  like  this,"  said  Malone,  smil- 
ing, "  I'll  surely  have  to  give  him  an  interest  in  the 
business.  I  had  struggles  myself  when  I  was  a 
young  man ;  I  know  what  appreciation  can  do  to 
help  a  person  along." 


24.8  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Then  Annie  would  smile  faintly,  and  remark 
that  it  was  a  good  thing  that  he  felt  pleased,  and  — 
did  he  notice  lately  how  the  child  was  growing  ? 
Then,  as  she  spoke,  she  would  twine  the  boy's 
golden  ringlets  around  her  finger,  to  distract  John's 
attention  from  the  theme  she  hated  to  have  him 
mention. 

Annie  began  to  look  very  pale  as  Spring  went 
on ;  she  moved  slowly  and  listlessly  about  the 
house,  for  she  was  nearing  her  second  confine- 
ment. Dave,  when  unobserved,  watched  her 
anxiously ;  yet  at  this  period,  through  all  his 
anguish,  shot  a  gleam  of  hope.  Perhaps  after 
the  babe  was  born  she  would  be  willing  to  admit 
that  he  had  now  a  double  right  to  her.  Perhaps 
she  would  then  leave  Malone's  child  and  fly  with 
him.  Then,  far  from  the  scene  of  their  first 
guilt,  they  would  live  for  and  with  each  other 
always.  Buoying  himself  up  with  thoughts  like 
these,  he  patiently  watched  the  weeks  crawl  by. 

In  the  occasional  absences  of  the  old  man, 
they  privately  met  and  talked  to  each  other.  Both 
were  sad  and  downcast.  Annie  inwardly  hoped, 
though  she  dared  not  breathe  this  hope  to  Dave, 
that  she  would  die  in  the  approaching  crisis. 
She  had  not  the  courage  to  think  of  leaving 
Malone,  and  to  live  like  this.  The  savor  of  the 
Dead  Sea  fruit  was  always  in  her  mouth  now.  As 
it  had  ever  been  with  her,  she  considered  herself 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning.  She  would  say 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  249 

to  Dave,  he  was  wiser  and  stronger  than  herself, 
why  had  he  listened  to  the  importunities  of  her 
affection  ?  Had  he  been  firm  they  need  not  be 
ashamed  and  miserable  now  !  Dave  would  hang 
his  head  at  this,  without  one  word  of  remon- 
strance. 

On  the  last  day  of  May  Annie  gave  birth  to  a 
boy.  The  weeks  succeeding  her  confinement  she 
seemed  to  have  very  little  vitality,  taking  scarcely 
any  notice  of  the  infant  or  what  went  on  about 
her.  Malone  regarded  this  lassitude  with  appre- 
hension, and  sent  for  a  physician  of  note.  He 
prescribed,  shook  his  head,  looked  grave  and 
muttered  something  about  being  strange  in  so 
young  a  woman.  Still  Annie  slowly,  very  slowly, 
regained  her  strength. 

After  this  confinement,  that  neglected  portion, 
her  soul,  seemed  to  awaken ;  the  magnitude  of  her 
errors  stood  before  her  in  undraped  deformity. 
Like  the  Undine  of  the  story  who  could  never 
gain  a  soul  except  through  the  love  of  a  human 
being,  so  Annie  had  never  realized  her  soul  save 
through  sin  and  sorrow.  If  she  had  determined 
before  never  to  run  away  with  Dave,  her  resolu- 
tion was  even  more  firmly  settled  now. 

*** 

Changes  quite  undreamed  of  by  Dave  took 
place  in  Annie's  sentiments  to  him.  From  the 
moment  of  her  conversation  with  Bridget,  in  which 
the  latter  had  divined  her  wretched  secret,  Annie 


250  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

had  experienced  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
common  to  weak  natures.  Now  that  she  realized 
all  she  had  sacrificed,  and  how  much  more  even 
Dave  expected  from  her,  a  chill  fell  on  her 
passion.  The  frequent  quarrels  with  her  lover 
produced  a  strong  impression  on  her. 

In  all  the  years  she  had  known  her  husband,  a 
harsh  or  even  impatient  word  to  her  had  never 
escaped  his  lips.  The  contrast  between  his  gentle- 
ness and  the  anger  with  which  Dave  was  often 
goaded  to  urge  his  wishes  on  her,  made  her  hope 
that  Dave  would  go  away  and  try  to  forget  her. 

Why,  she  argued,  should  he  wish  her  to  give  up 
her  child,  her  reputation — all,  to  fly  with  him  to 
poverty  and  open  shame  ?  It  was  with  ideas  like 
these  that  she  began  to  avoid  every  occasion  for 
private  conversation  with  him.  Her  sole  effort 
now  was  to  retrieve  all  that  she  had  lost.  There 
was  the  hope  that  if  Dave  would  only  be  reason- 
able and  trouble  her  no  more  with  his  impor- 
tunities to  fly  with  him,  this  part  of  her  life  might 
pass  away  like  some  bad  dream.  So  Annie,  who, 
like  a  gambler,  had  hazarded  all,  would  fain  regain 
all  by  the  throw  upon  one  desperate  stake. 

She  did  not  know — how  could  she — that  her 
Nemesis  stood  just  outside  the  gates,  ready  with 
her  tongue — not  hands — to  pull  the  house  down 
on  the  guilty  pair.  Within  pleasant  walking  dis- 
tance of  the  Malone  mansion  lived  a  middle-aged 
woman  named  Carnrody.  Mrs.  Carnrody,  who,  by 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  251 

the  way  was  a  widow,  lived  in  comfort  in  a  neat 
cottage  of  her  very  own,  bequeathed  to  her  by 
the  late  Mr.  Carnrody.  Now,  this  amiable  lady 
had  so  very  little  to  do  in  attending  to  her  own 
affairs  that  she  felt  obliged  to  take  an  absorbing 
interest  in  those  of  her  neighbors.  She  retailed 
all  the  gossip,  not  only  of  her  own  locality,  but 
even  that  of  distant  thoroughfares.  When  she  was 
seen  wending  her  way  from  house  to  house,  her 
friends  would  sarcastically  remark  that  "  Carnrody 
was  afther  gettin'  up  one  of  her  rale  illigant  stories 
consarning  her  neighbors." 

People  who  had  enjoyed  Mrs.  Carnrody's 
acquaintance,  and  knew  her,  shunned  her  as  if  she 
were  the  plague,  declaring  that  she  had  the  ability 
to  tear  more  characters  to  pieces  than  all  the 
courts  of  law  could  patch  up  again.  This  woman 
had  employed  some  of  the  aforesaid  leisure  to 
watch  Annie,  with  a  result  easily  imagined.  Many 
of  Dave's  and  Annie's  secret  meetings  had  been 
known  to  her.  Having  carefully  gathered  the 
venom,  she  was  now  prepared  to  distribute  it,  her 
impelling  motive  being  a  deep-seated  animosity 
toward  Mrs.  Nolan, — the  Carnrody's  efforts  toward 
forming  a  friendly  league  with  the  kitchen  inmates 
of  the  big  house  having  failed  signally,  owing  to 
Nora's  determined  stand  against  her.  When,  shortly 
after  their  installation  in  Jier  neighborhood,  Mrs. 
Carnrody  called,  and,  introducing  herself  with 
many  smiles,  claimed  acquaintance  as  a  country- 


252  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

woman  and  near  resident,  supplementing  all 
with  the  remark  that  Mrs.  Nolan,  being  a 
widow,  like  herself,  would  doubtless  feel  the 
need  of  neighboring  with  her,  Nora  regarded 
her  with  a  stare  calculated  to  have  the 
effect  of  the  far  famed  Gorgon's  head.  She  meas- 
ured the  woman  with  a  glance,  concluding  that  her 
enmity  was  safer  than  her  friendship.  So  it  would 
have  been,  had  the  young  mistress  of  the  house 
been  what  Nora  supposed. 

It  was  nearing  Christmas  again.  Annie  remem- 
bered bitterly  that  two  years  ago  on  Christmas  eve, 
she  and  Dave  stood  silently  looking  into  each  oth- 
er's eyes  their  inexpressible  surprise  and  woe.  Now, 
what  a  horror  of  blackness  settled  around  her,  re- 
calling all  that  had  happened  since.  Dave,  too, 
remembered  with  a  sullen  misery,  born  of  his  inex- 
tinguishable love,  his  late  remorse.  A  determina- 
tion was  forming  in  his  mind  that  in  a  few  days  he 
would  force  from  Annie  a  final  answer,  and  after 
that  —  but  he  dared  not  look  into  the  gulf  beyond. 

In  these  souls  about  him,  teeming  with  conflict- 
ing thoughts,  Malone  moved,  the  central  figure. 
With  the  crystal  clearness  of  his  mind  luminous  by 
contrast,  his  probity  of  soul  seemed  to  shine  through 
his  open  countenance.  Not  the  faintest  suspicion 
ever  sullied  Annie  in  her  husband's  thoughts.  Being 
a  man  —  a  man  in  an  occupation  which  often  showed 
to  him  the  most  degraded  side  of  human  nature  — 
he  looked  upon  it  with  pity,  yet  repugnance,  know- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  253 

ing  that  awful  evils  existed.  He  gazed  upon  them 
as  the  wayfarer  looks  upon  the  mud  beside  the  path, 
which  nothing  will  induce  him  to  put  his  foot  near. 
Upon  the  sacred  altar  of  his  home,  his  own  dear 
woman  stood  spotless  and  glorified.  That  sin  or 
shame  should  enter  there,  no  more  came  to  his  mind 
than  the  possibility  that  a  kneeling  penitent  should 
rise  from  his  prayers  to  pull  down  and  smirch  the 
gentle-faced  Madonna  before  whom  he  made  obei- 
sance. 

That  Annie  was  all  he  could  wish  her  to  be  in 
disposition,  he  knew  was  not  the  case,  in  comparison 
with  the  gentle  being  who  shared  his  younger  years, 
the  incense  of  whose  sweet  charities  had  risen  per- 
petually about  him.  Annie  was  selfish  and  unsym- 
pathetic, but  against  all  this  stood  out  the  charm  of 
her  motherhood  —  the  mother  of  his  children  !  To 
John,  unversed  in  woman  -  lore,  this  very  mother- 
hood seemed  an  explanation  of  the  little  interest 
she  bestowed  on  the  anxieties  of  mortals  less  favored 
than  herself.  Why  should  she  —  bound  heart  and 
soul  in  the  care  of  her  babies  —  look  beyond,  to  see 
if  any  sat  weeping  by  the  outer  wall  ?  Thus  John, 
happily  oblivious,  beamed  his  earnest  way  through 
the  mazes  as  Fate  drew  all  her  forces  toward  the 
closing  struggle. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  23d  of  December, 
Bridget  was  a  very  busy  woman.  She  was  con- 
structing, slyly  with  her  own  strong  hands,  a  most 
wonderful  garment,  to  be  presented  to  Jack  on 


254  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Christmas  morning.  It  was  the  regular  and  proper 
thing  to  give  Jack  a  stunning  Christmas  surprise, 
but  it  must  be  always  something  made  by  herself. 
The  care  of  the  house  and  small  Rooneys  made 
this  enterprise  very  difficult;  especially  as  the  little 
ones  had  grown  to  an  age  when  their  discretion  did 
not  keep  pace  with  their  inquisitiveness,  so  that 
they  could  not  be  trusted  with  even  a  whiff  of  the 
secret,  and  for  Jack  to  know  anything  before  hand! 
Oh,  that  would  never  do  !  She  was  amazed  just  as 
the  last  light  of  day  was  waning  to  hear  Jack's  step 
at  the  door.  So  early  for  him  !  She  bundled  her 
work  out  of  sight  in  a  moment  and  ran  to  meet  him. 

"Well,"  cried  Jack  gayly,  with  a  poor  assump- 
tion of  his  ordinary  manner,  "here  I  am,  ever  so 
much  earlier  than  usual,  because  my  better  half 
must  share  the  worries  as  well  as  joys  of  my  life." 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  looked  at 
Bridget  with  a  contracted  brow. 

"Soonest  told,  quickest  done  with,"  answered 
Bridget  serenely. 

"Bridget,"  said  her  spouse  gravely,  "I've  heard 
this  day  things  that  I  can't  let  myself  think  can  be 
true.  A  woman  named  Carnrody  has  been  circu- 
lating most  scandalous  stories  about  Annie  and 
Dave.  My  God  !  think  what  this  will  be  for  An- 
nie's husband.  It  must  be  stopped  — this  talk  —  at 
once." 

A  violent  tremor  shook  Bridget.  It  had  come 
at  last  then.  From  the  moment  she  guessed  that 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  255 

guilty  secret,  she  felt  that  there  might  be  some 
dreadful  ending.  She  looked  at  Jack  with  a  horror 
in  her  face,  and  began  to  wring  her  hands  in  a 
helpless  manner  quite  unusual  with  her. 

"  Bridget,"  said  Jack,  thoroughly  startled  by  her 
look,  "you  can't  think  there  is  any  truth  in  such 
stories  ?  Annie  is  never  so  wicked  as  that.  Per- 
haps she  has  acted  thoughtlessly  or  foolishly. 
You  must  see  and  talk  to  her  at  once.  Malone  is 
so  good  and  just  a  man  that  he  must  not  be  trifled 
with." 

Bridget  had  never  breathed  a  word  of  this  mat- 
ter to  her  husband.  He  had  expected  fierce  anger 
on  her  part  when  hearing  of  aspersions  on  Annie's 
fair  fame,  with  violent  speech  against  the  calumni- 
ators, not  this  ashy  face  and  dead  silence. 

After  a  long  pause  Jack  said,  "  Being  so  far  to 
go,  it  is  too  late  this  evening,  but  you  must  get  to 
her  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Talk  to  her  like 
the  sister  you've  always  been  to  her.  Try  to 
make  her  understand  all  that  she  owes  her  hus- 
band. I  can't  tell  you,"  continued  Jack,  choking 
a  little,  "  how  I  feel  for  Malone ;  I  love  him  as  a 
father." 

Bridget  never  could  forget  the  dreams  she  had 
that  night.  Once  she  roused,  scteaming,  for  she 
seemed  to  see  Malone — his  hands  all  red  with 
blood  —  standing  over  Dave,  who  lay  dead  upon 
the  ground.  Very  much  shaken  by  the  nature  of 
her  dreams,  she  dressed  herself  with  trembling 


256  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

hands,  and  hastened  out  to  Annie's.  Soon  finding 
the  chance  for  undisturbed  conversation,  she  came 
to  the  point  with  that  directness  which  was  part  of 
her  character.  Annie  was  thoroughly  terrified,  she 
had  supposed  her  secret  safe,  now  ^- Dave  must  go. 
Bridget  insisted  this  was  all  that  could  be  done,  if 
"  Annie  had  one  grain  of  decency  left."  Bridget 
put  it  to  her  in  this  extremely  plain  way — she  must 
send  Dave  away,  never  to  look  upon  his  face  again. 
With  Dave  away,  these  stories  might  cease,  and 
never  reach  Malone's  ears.  "  Unless,"  said  Bridget, 
bitterly,  "  you  want  to  bring  utter  ruin  upon  your 
husband  and  children  —  to  kill  with  shame  the  man 
who  has  done  everything  in  the  world  for  you ! " 

Annie  drooped  like  a  withered  flower  under 
these  invectives.  She  said,  helplessly,  "  I  will  try 
to  make  him  go  away;  I  will  indeed !  " 

"At  once,"  said  Bridget,  firmly,  "there  must  be 
no  lingering  ;  tell  him  this  very  day,  and  make  him 
leave  you  ! " 

Annie  sighed.  Bridget  having  done  all  in  her 
power,  hurried  home. 

This  day  being  the  one  before  Christmas,  was  a 
time  of  extra  activity  with  Mrs.  Nolan ;  her  "bump 
of  order  "  must  have  grown  to  a  tremendous  size 
by  the  constant  exercise  it  received.  The  day  before 
Christmas  this  bump  became  particularly  rampant, 
in  consequence,  Kitty  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  sub- 
missive agony;  her  "  feet,"  as  she  dolefully  expressed 
it,  "seemed  most  wore  off."  From  the  attic  to  the 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  257 

cellar  Mrs.  Nolan  seemed  to  literally  ride— like  the 
old  woman  in  Mother  Goose — "on  a  broomstick." 
No  corner  was  safe  from  her  investigations,  no 
dust-covered  nook  escaped  her  quick  eyes  ;  resem- 
bling some  ugly  little  demon,  she  appeared  to  be 
everywhere  at  once. 

Late  that  afternoon  Kitty  sat  for  a  few  fleeting 
moments  resting  her  weary  feet,  and  watching  some 
Christmas  dainties  "  baking  off."  She  felt  embold- 
ened to  this  brief  respite  by  the  surety  that  Mrs. 
Nolan  was  at  that  moment  in  the  very  top  of  the  house. 
Looking  wearily  up,  she  espied  coming  toward  the 
open  kitchen  door  no  less  a  person  than  Mrs.  Carn- 
rody.  The  kitchen  door  stood  open  because  it  was 
very  fine  weather.  It  was  one  of  those  "  open  " 
winters  Chicago  frequently  enjoys.  The  grass  was 
still  a  vivid  green,  though  dead  leaves  lay  thickly 
under  the  big  trees  in  the  park  ;  the  breeze,  which 
blew  them  lightly  along,  was  balmy  and  summer- 
like.  Bright  sunshine  irradiated  everything.  Na- 
ture seemed  to  join  the  universal  holiday  rejoicing, 
making  up  her  mind  that  she  would  no  longer  be 
reproached  for  frozen  toes  and  blue  noses  or  a  cold- 
ness of  demeanor,  but  would  show  Chicago  what 
she  could  do  in  helping  along  the  holidays  if  she 
just  took  a  notion  to.  •. 

Had  Kitty  been  less  tired  and  disquieted,  she 
might  not  have  been  pleased  to  see  Mrs.  Carnrody, 
for  in  her  heart  she  really  didn't  like  her  very  much; 
but  she  was  young,  fond  of  gossip,  and  Mrs.  Carn- 


258  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

rody  could  furnish  her  with  the  latest  news  of  the 
neighborhood.  Mrs.  Carnrody,  on  entering,  gave 
an  apprehensive  glance  about  the  room. 

"Mrs.  Nolan  is  upstairs,"  said  Kitty,  divining 
the  lady's  thoughts.  Mrs.  Carnrody  openly  de- 
clared herself  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Nolan  was  up- 
stairs, for  she,  Carnrody,  had  come  there  for  the 
express  purpose  of  seeing  Kitty  and  telling  her  that 
she  was  working  in  a  house  where  no  respectable 
girl  should  be.  She,  Carnrody,  had  no  feeling  of 
pity  for  Mrs.  Nolan,  who  was  old  enough  to  have 
her  eyes  open  !  but  Kitty  was  young  and  innocent, 
and  knew  no  better  ! 

Then  this  good  woman  poured  into  Kitty's  hor- 
ror stricken  understanding  all  that  she  had  sus- 
pected—  all  that  she  had  seen  —  every  damning 
circumstance  connected  with  the  young  mistress. 

In  the  meantime,  on  the  dark  staircase,  behind 
the  door,  which  was  not  entirely  closed,  stood  an 
unseen  listener.  Mrs.  Nolan  being  very  small,  also 
lightly  slippered,  had  a  noiseless  way  with  her.  She 
arrived  upon  the  scene  in  the  middle  of  these  reve- 
lations. She  stood  stockstill  and  listened,  making 
up  her  mind  at  the  same  time  what  to  do.  Mrs. 
Nolan  had  a  way,  to  use  common  parlance,  of  tak- 
ing the  bull  by  the  horns.  She  waited  until  she 
knew,  by  the  unguarded  sound  of  the  voices,  that 
the  speakers  had  forgotten  everything  except  the 
subject  talked  of — then  she  pounced  on  them, 
grabbing  Kitty  by  the  shoulder.  She  shook  her 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  259 

violently,  asking  her  what  she  meant  by  standing 
there  listening  to  a  parcel  of  lies  about  people 
whose  bread  she  was  eating.  Then,  turning  a  flash- 
ing glance  upon  the  Carnrody,  she  bade  her  begone! 

Nora's  face  at  this  juncture  was  frightful  beyond 
description,  added  to  its  native  homeliness,  the  dis- 
tortions caused  by  rage  gave  it  a  twisted  appear- 
ance ;  she  seemed  almost  to  "  spit  fire  "  like  the 
dragons  of  old ! 

The  Carnrody  was  a  coward  at  heart,  she  re- 
coiled before  this  impish  figure — actually  turned 
and  fled.  Kitty  tremblingly  shrank  from  the 
range  of  Nora's  eyes.  Just  then  the  Carnrody — it 
could  be  no  other — was  heard  shrieking!  Nora 
rushed  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  "  Glory  be 
to  God,"  she  exclaimed,  "  the  dog  has  got  her  by 
the  leg!" 

It  was  indeed  true.  Mrs.  Carnrody,  scurrying 
in  great  excitement  through  the  back  yard,  had 
failed  to  notice  a  savage  looking  dog  fastened  near 
the  entrance  to  an  open  shed.  As  she  passed  un- 
warily close  to  him  he  seized  the  intruder  by  the 
leg  and  held  her  till  one  of  the  hired  men  rushed 
to  the  rescue.  Owing  to  the  ample  nature  of  Mrs. 
Carnrody's  petticoats  the  dog  inflicted  little  more 
injury  than  fright.  Nora  surveyed  the,  situation 
with  a  grim  smile.  "  It's  little  help  she'd  get  from 
me"  she  muttered,  "  if  the  dog  had  eaten  her  up." 

Mrs.  Nolan  bethought  herself  that  it  would  be 
as  well  now  to  say  something  to  Kitty.  She 


260  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE, 

turned,  but  that  damsel  had  also  fled.  Poor  Kitty 
was  so  overcome  by  all  she  had  heard  that  she 
locked  herself  into  her  chamber,  and  leaving  the 
Christmas  cookery  to  its  fate,  indulged  in  a  long 
fit  of  weeping.  Nora,  who  through  every  misfor- 
tune never  lost  sight  of  the  necessary  incidents  of 
life,  took  charge  of  the  baking,  thinking  hard  as 
she  did  so.  Though  she  affected  to  regard  these 
tales  as  fabrications,  she  did  so  with  the  instinct 
which  makes  the  mother  bird  simulate  a  wounded 
wing  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  intruder  from 
her  secret  nest ;  in  her  heart  all  this  came  to  Nora 
with  the  force  of  conviction. 

We  pass  through  dark  places  with  an  uneasy 
sense  that  dangerous  things  may  be  about  us,  it  is 
not  till  a  beam  of  light  penetrates  the  blackness, 
that,  looking  backward,  we  discern  all,  and  shud- 
der as  we  gaze.  In  the  landscape  of  Nora's  mind 
one  stood  in  bold  relief — Malone — the  world,  the 
only  world  of  good  that  she  had  ever  known ;  the 
kind  master  and  friend  of  many  years!  To  let 
this  disgrace  come  to  him  ;  it  must  never  be.  For 
Annie  she  cared  nothing.  That  any  woman  could 
treat  the  master  that  way  was  astonishing.  Nora's 
harsh  mouth  curled  with  scorn  at  the  thought ; 
nevertheless,  through  Annie  and  Annie  only,  could 
she  try  to  right  this  wrong. 

She  would  undertake  the  work  at  once.  The 
afternoon  was  waning  fast,  something  impelled  her 
to  essay  the  task  immediately.  Carefully  complet- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  261 

ing  her  culinary  preparations,  she  laid  her  apron 
off  and  donned  a  snow-white  one,  as  was  her  cus- 
tom when  she  entered  the  rooms  of  the  mistress. 
Then  she  went  slowly  and  meditatively  upstairs. 

Annie  sat  alone  with  her  infant,  the  boy  was 
down  town  with  his  father.  Nora  tapped  gently 
at  the  door  and  answering  Annie's  summons 
stepped  inside.  She  walked  over  to  the  mistress 
and  gave  her  a  penetrating  glance.  Annie  was  so 
alarmed  by  the  interview  with  Bridget  that  she 
read  this  look  as  if  it  had  been  printed  words.  She 
felt  no  surprise  that  Nora  should  know — she  had  a 
bewildered  sense  that  at  any  moment  it  might  be 
placarded  upon  the  very  walls. 

Nora's  deep  voice  said  to  her  exactly  what  Brid- 
get had  said  ;  that  these  tales  must  be  hushed  up  ; 
that  Annie  must  insist  upon  Dave's  leaving  the 
house  and  city,  making  up  her  mind  to  save  her 
husband  by  seeing  him  no  more.  Mrs.  Malone 
must  pledge  her  word  to  Nora  that  at  once — this 
very  night — she  should  tell  Dave  this. 

Annie  humbly  promised  and  Nora  returned  to 
her  usual  avocations.  Then  in  a  long  spell  of  rev- 
erie Annie  said  to  herself,  "  even  if  I  wished  never 
to  part  with  him,  I  couldn't  help  myself  nqw,  he 
must  consent  to  bid  me  good-bye  forever." 

By  this  time  the  Christmas  eve  was  falling 
darkly  ;  lights  flickered  along  the  lamp-lit  streets  ; 
the  hoarse  cries  of  the  street  venders  had  ceased  ; 
from  the  window  she  could  see  the  dark  tops  of 


262  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

the  almost  leafless  trees  in  the  park,  standing  black 
and  solemn  against  the  sombre  sky,  their  shadows 
lying  still  as  death  within  the  yet  unfrozen 'ponds. 
She  shuddered  as  she  looked,  thinking  how  quietly 
one  might  lie  beneath  that  placid  water.  After  all, 
to  live  was  a  dreadful  thing ;  a  heavy  burden. 
Why  should  people  yearn  to  preserve  this  grievous 
mystery  of  life  ?  She  heard  a  step,  and  turning 
found  Dave  beside  her.  There  was  something — 
or  did  she  fancy  it — she  had  never  noted  in  his 
face  before. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
steadily,  "  that  it  is  Christmas  eve  ?  Two  years 
ago  to-night  I  met  you  after  my  long  search.  You 
know  how  madly,  how  wickedly  I  love  you ;  how 
long  I  have  implored  you  to  leave  the  husband 
you  do  not  love  and  live  with  me.  To-night 
again,  for  the  last  time,  I  ask  you.  You  are  killing 
me  by  your  refusals.  I  must  have  a  final  answer 
now." 

Annie  answered  fretfully  that  his  pertinacity 
was  ruining  her ;  that  already  their  intimacy  was 
talked  of ;  that,  in  short,  he  must  leave  her  at  once 
and  forever. 

Dave's  features  expressed  his  anguish.  He 
looked  at  her  with  an  expression  which  seemed  to 
say  that  she  had  been  willing  to  sin,  but  not  to 
sacrifice  for  him.  Annie  felt  the  mute  reproach 
and  turned  her  head  aside. 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Dave  said  in  a  muf- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  263 

fled  voice,  "  Look  at  me — look  me  in  the  eyes — 
tell  rne,  is  this  your  final  answer  ?" 

Annie  slowly  gazed  at  him,  replying,  "  Yes." 

Would  she  ever  forget  the  look  he  gave  her  ? 
There  was  a  meaning  in  it  she  could  not  fathom. 
It  filled  her  with  a  strange  alarm.  She  tried  to 
frame  some  words  of  excuse,  farewell  or  explana- 
tion, but  they  died  upon  her  lips.  Dave  stepped 
quickly  to  the  sleeping  infant,  bent  over  it  with 
one  long  look  of  tenderness,  kissed  it,  and  was 
gone. 

Annie  sat  there  pondering,  the  darkness  closed 
her  in.  Along  the  streets,  carriages  and  wagons 
rolled  with  their  freight  of  people,  carrying  parcels 
full  of  anticipated  happiness.  The  street  cars  clat- 
tered by  filled  with  a  happy  throng,  all  holding  the 
inevitable  Christmas  packages.  Through  lighted 
windows  little  Christmas  trees  could  be  seen,  cov- 
ered by  fantastic  decorations.  The  humanity  of 
the  great  city  was  all  astir  and  bustling  for  the  best 
holiday  of  the  year  ;  while  in  the  big  house,  the 
dejected  figure  sat  at  the  window  in  the  dark,  Mrs. 
Nolan  pondered  gloomily  in  the  kitchen,  and  Kitty 
tried  to  wash  the  tear  marks  from  her  face. 

When  Malone  and  the  little  boy  returned  an 
hour  later,  the  child  nestled  closely  beside  his 
mother,  and  described,  with  glowing  cheeks  and 
sparkling  eyes,  the  glories  of  the  State  street  stores, 
telling  her,  with  a  child's  extravagance  of  fancy,  all 
the  pretty  things  he  would  buy  for  her,  interspersed 


264  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

with  ardent  guesses  as  to  the  nature  of  the  sur- 
prises Santa  Claus  might  have  in  store  for  him. 

Annie  looked  from  the  child  to  Malone,  from 
Malone  around  the  room,  furnished  with  all  the 
accessories  of  comfort.  A  vague  wonder  came 
over  her  that  she  should  by  her  insane  folly  have 
put  the  torch  to  this  domestic  peace — for  what? 

A  mournful  wind  was  rising.  As  it  wailed 
around  the  house,  it  seemed  to  breathe  an  answer 
to  that  inward  question.  The  burden  of  its  song 
was,  always,  "the  wages  of  sin  is  death."  What 
was  this  heaviness  that  settled  upon  her  spirits? 
Not  the  remembrance  of  Dave's  agony.  Somehow 
that  did  not  touch  her  as  much  as  she  feared  it 
would.  The  child's  prattle  made  the  supper  a 
cheerful  meal ;  otherwise,  with  Annie  so  silent,  the 
lively  Kitty,  who  was  generally  all  smiles,  waiting 
on  the  table  with  a  face  of  ghostly  pallor  —  it  might 
have  been  depressing. 

Nora  did  not  appear ;  she  had  been  so  agitated, 
that — to  use  her  own  words  —  she  "partook  a 
little."  It  may  have  been  a  little,  but  its  effect  was 
to  make  of  Nora  a  walking  automaton.  Taciturn 
at  all  times,  she  became  under  these  influences 
silence  personified,  walking  about  with  an  air  of 
lofty  abstraction  quite  terrifying. 

John  went  down  stairs  immediately  after  supper 
to  assist  Dave  and  the  boys,  for  it  was  a  time  of 
great  activity  in  their  business. 

As  it  drew  near  midnight,  John  secured  the  op- 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  265 

portunity  he  had  been  looking  for  to  have  a  word 
alone  with  Dave.  People  had  dispersed  to  their 
homes.  The  night,  bright  and  warm,  seemed  to 
speak  its  message  of  peace  to  the  wide  world. 
Malone  approached  Dave  with  a  face  beaming  with 
kindness.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  small  box  covered 
by  russia  leather.  "As  things  have  quieted  down," 
he  said,  "it  gives  me  the  chance  for  what  I've  been 
wanting  to  say  to  you.  You've  been  my  right 
hand  man,  Dave,  ever  since  you  came  here.  I 
haven't  said  anything  to  you  of  what's  in  my  mind, 
but  for  all  that,  you've  been  appreciated.  I've 
noticed  how  steady  and  industrious  you  are.  To- 
morrow we'll  talk  things  over  and  you'll  know  that 
I'm  going  to  do  what  will  advance  your  interests. 
It  is  Christmas  eve,"  at  this  the  kind  soul  fidgeted 
somewhat  bashfully  over  the  box  in  his  hand,  "and 
being  the  season  of  the  year  when  we  like  to  express 
our  friendships  in  little  gifts,  I  brought  you  this. 
I  hope,"  he  added,  rather  timidly,  "  you'll  like  it." 
John  added  this  because  he  saw  something  in  Dave's 
face,  as  he  took  the  box  from  him,  which  puzzled 
him. 

Dave  opened  the  box,  and  there,  reposing  on  a 
bed  of  purple  plush,  lay  an  elegant  gold  watch. 

"  Open  it,"  exclaimed  Malone,  flushing  with 
pleasure,  "  and  see  what's  engraved  inside  for  you." 
But  this  Dave's  trembling  fingers  could  not  do,  so 
the  old  man  did  it  for  him.  Inside  the  case,  in 
beautiful  characters,  was  Dave's  own  name,  followed 


266  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

by  "Presented  as  a  token  of  esteem  from  his  friend, 
John  Malone."  Dave  trembled  more  violently, 
still.  He  said,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "Mr.  Malone,  I 
haven't  any  words  to  thank  you  for  this  and  all 
your  goodness  the  last  two  years.  There  is  only 
one  return  I  can  make  you,  and—  '  here  Dave 
looked  him  full  in  the  eyes,  "  I  will  do  it." 

Malone  shrank  back,  there  was  something   so 
incomprehensible    in    Dave's    eyes  —  so  strange  a 
look  that  John  never,  to  his  dying  day,  forgot  it  — 
that  he  bade  him  a  hasty  good-night  and  left  him. 

As  the  old  man  went  up  stairs,  he  experienced 
a  feeling  of  disappointment.  He  had  looked  for- 
ward to  Dave's  delight  in  receiving  this  gift.  He 
had  lived  the  scene  through  in  his  mind  in  antici- 
pation, but  the  scene  in  his  fancy  had  not  at  all 
resembled  this.  So  with  a  sigh,  he  thought  to  him- 
self, "  I  fear  he  wasn't  pleased  with  it  after  all." 

Soon  lights  in  the  large  house  were  extinguished, 
except  in  one  room  where  Dave  sat  writing.  What- 
ever he  wrote  cost  him  much  thought,  for  he  sat 
with  his  head  leaning  upon  his  hand  and  pondered 
deeply  between  every  word.  When  the  writing  — 
which  took  him  a  long  time  —  was  finished,  it 
amounted  to  only  a  few  lines  addressed  to  John 
Malone.  Upon  this,  which  was  carefully  placed 
on  the  center  of  the  table,  Dave  laid  a  paper  weight, 
then  turning  out  the  gas,  he  stepped  softly  to  the 
hall  outside,  closing  the  door  noiselessly  after 
him. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  267 

That  night  Mrs.  Nolan  slept  not.  The  "little," 
so  far  from  benumbing  her  senses,  roused  every 
faculty.  She  turned  off  the  gas  in  her  room, 
having  previously  arrayed  herself  in  a  warm  woolen 
gown,  shawl  and  close  bonnet.  Then  she  paced 
the  floor  softly  and  restlessly  for  over  an  hour, 
seeming  by  occasional  muttered  interjections  to  be 
striving  to  combat  some  inward  yearning.  At  last, 
as  if  yielding  to  an  irresistible  power,  she  felt  in 
her  pocket  to  be  assured  that  her  latch  key  was 
there,  then,  closing  and  locking  her  door,  she  too 
departed.  These  excursions  in  the  "stilly  night," 
only  indulged  in  by  Nora  when  under  the  effect  of 
her  potations,  had  nothing  wrong  about  them  except- 
ing their  uncanniness,  consisting  only  of  rapid  walk- 
ing in  some  sequestered  places,  where  she  would 
address  fearful  adjurations  to  the  moon  and  stars, 
meantime  smiting  herself  upon  the  breast  with 
many  lamentations  over  the  depravity  of  her 
nature.  She  generally  returned  to  her  home  just 
preceding  or  in  the  first  faint  dawn  of  day,  where, 
after  attiring  herself  in  her  customary  morning 
habiliments,  she  would  be  found  at  a  later  hour 
busied  in  the  kitchen,  with  an  air  of  impenetrable 
dignity. 

As  the  cold  gray  dawn  of  the  Christmas  morn- 
ing began  to  break,  Nora  made  her  way  through 
the  southwest  corner  of  the  park — which  was  the 
shortest  cut  to  the  big  house — quite  recovered  now 
from  the  effects  of  that  "little";  she  felt  shivering 


268  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

and  depressed.  As  she  walked  rapidly  through  a 
small  grove  of  trees  near  the  greenhouses,  she 
stumbled  over  something.  Regaining  her  equil- 
ibrium with  some  difficulty,  she  was  surprised  to 
see  that  she  had  stumbled  against  a  man  lying  at 
full  length  on  the  grass. 

"Poor  fellow!"  was  her  first  thought,  "sure 
he's  been  drinking  like  myself." 

She  stooped  in  the  dim  light  to  look  at  him, 
then  recoiled  with  a  cry.  It  was  Dave — a  bullet- 
hole  was  in  his  temple — his  right  hand  clutched  a 
pistol.  Nora  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  form  quite 
sick  with  horror.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  him — 
he  was  stone  dead. 

Yesterday  she  had  hated  him  and  wished  him 
dead,  but  now,  at  the  sight  of  his  useless  atonement, 
the  woman  in  her  nature  caused  her  to  utter  a  loud 
wail. 

A  policeman  slowly  sauntering  at  some  distance 
heard  the  cry  and  hastened  to  the  spot.  The 
policeman  examined  the  man  calmly.  "  I  think," 
he  said,  "he  has  been  dead  some  hours."  Then, 
as  the  daylight,  growing  stronger,  revealed  the 
countenance  plainly,  he  too  started,  exclaiming, 
"Why,  it's  Dave,  from  Malone's  place!" 

All  the  people  thereabouts  knew  the  good- 
natured  young  Irishman  very  well.  The  police- 
man surveyed  the  form  in  astonishment. 

"I  never  would  have  supposed,"  he  declared, 
"that  Dave  was  a  drinking  man." 


ALL  OJV  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  269 

Nora  begged  him  to  remain  with  the  corpse  till 
she  should  tell  the  master.  Then  she  sped  to  the 
house.  Tapping  at  Malone's  door,  she  begged 
him  to  come  outside,  she  had  something  important 
to  say  to  him.  The  old  man,  astonished  and 
alarmed,  was  dressed  in  a  few  minutes,  coming  out 
immediately,  knowing  that  Nora  would  never  bring 
such  a  message  unless  it  was  really  something 
serious.  She  told  him  in  a  few  hurried  words 
that  Dave  was  lying  dead  by  his  own  hand,  and 
bade  him  go  to  the  scene  at  once.  He  was  incredu- 
lous; she  urged  him  to  convince  himself.  He 
went,  which  was  what  Nora  was  desperately  anxious 
he  should  do.  She  wanted  to  prepare  Annie.  She 
knew  that  it  would  be  better  for  her  to  be  the  only 
witness  to  that  scene. 

Annie,  greatly  alarmed  by  this  sudden  sum- 
mons, sat  up  in  bed  looking  anxiously  toward  the 
door,  her  fair  hair  falling  unbound  about  her 
shoulders.  Her  large  blue  eyes  sought  Nora's 
with  a  world  of  questioning  in  them.  Nora  locked 
the  door,  then,  grasping  Annie  firmly  by  the  hands, 
told  her  the  truth.  After  the  first  few  moments  of 
actual  stupefaction,  Annie  rent  the  air  with  shrieks 
so  horrible  that  Nora,  thoroughly  frightened, 
begged  her  to  bethink  herself,  to  remember  her 
reputation,  her  child,  everything.  But  the  des- 
perate creature,  springing  from  her  bed,  made  for 
a  knife  that  lay  upon  a  table,  and  would  undoubt- 
edly have  ended  her  life  that  moment  if  Nora  had 


270  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

not  overpowered  her  !  Foiled  in  this,  she  dashed 
her  head  against  the  wall,  only  yielding  to  per- 
suasion when  too  exhausted  for  further  motion. 

The  heavy  perspiration  rolled  from  Nora's  fore- 
head when  she  at  last  succeeded  in  placing  Annie 
in  the  bed  again,  telling  her  in  a  firm  voice  that 
nothing  but  disgrace  would  come  of  giving  way  to 
these  transports  !  She  must  be  quiet ! 

Kitty  was  knocking  at  the  door,  begging  to 
know  if  the  mistress  was  sick.  Nora  opened  the 
door,  telling  Kitty  that  the  mistress  was  very  ill, 
and  not  to  leave  her  for  an  instant  till  she — Nora 
— returned.  Then  she  went  quickly  to  Dave's 
room,  where,  opening  the  unlocked  door,  she  saw 
with  one  comprehensive  glance  the  paper  on  the 
table.  She  read  it,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of  con- 
sideration, thought  best  to  leave  it.  All  it  con- 
tained was  this  : 

CHRISTMAS  EVE. 
MR.  MALONE: 

Dear  Sir, — When  you  read  this,  you  will  know  what  was 
in  my  mind  when  you  spoke  to  me  so  kindly.  My  object  in 
writing  this  is  to  have  it  understood  that  I  deliberately  take 
my  life  with  my  own  hand ;  that  no  blame  is  to  attach  to  any 
one  except  myself. 

I  thank  you  from  my  heart,  Mr.  M  alone,  for  the  great 
kindness  you  have  always  shown  me.  DAVE. 

By  the  time  Malone  reached  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy  quite  a  crowd  had  assembled.  There  is 
scarcely  a  spot  on  earth  where  a  crowd  will  get 
together  more  quickly  than  in  Chicago.  It  is  a 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  271 

marvel  how  they  can  arrive  as  fast  as  they  do. 
Many  of  them  were  neighbors  who  had  known  the 
dead  man.  As  Malone  stood  unnoticed  on  the 
outskirts  of  this  gathering,  he  heard  one  of  them 
say,  "It's  easy  telling  why  the  poor  fellow  shot 
himself ;  he  was  dead  in  love  with  old  Malone's 
wife  !" 

John  staggered  !  Was  this  the  explanation  of 
Dave's  strange  looks  last  night  ?  Everything 
turned  black  around  him. 

"Hullo!"  cried  a  voice,  "  here's  the  old  man 
himself !  Look  out  for  him,  boys,  he  seems  to  be 
fainting  !" 

When  they  led  him  home  a  little  later  he  was  as 
white  as  the  corpse  that  the  men  were  bearing  on  a 
litter.  He  walked  feebly  upstairs  and  went  into  the 
room  where  Annie  lay  and  looked  at  her.  She  was 
quiet  now,  her  eyes,  widely  dilated,  staring  straight 
in  front  of  her,  seeing  nothing.  Her  breath  came 
in  heavy  sobs.  He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  then 
sighed  as  he  had  never  sighed  in  his  life  before,  and 
slowly  quitted  the  room. 

Nora  observed  him  anxiously  ;  she  thought  at 
once  that  he  must  have  heard  something ;  she  dared 
ask  no  questions.  Had  Nora  been  able  to  leave 
Annie  alone  long  enough  to  go  outside,  where  ex- 
cited groups  of  people  clustered  around  the  house, 
seeming  all  to  be  talking  at  once,  she  would  soon 
have  understood  that  John  Malone  could  scarcely 
fail  to  hear  the  story  of  his  shame ;  for  on  this  sea 


272  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

of  scandal  the  Carnrody  ship  sailed  triumphantly, 
with  all  her  canvas  spread. 

To  leave  Annie  entirely  without  attendance  was 
out  of  the  question ;  her  life  was  trembling  in  the 
balance.  When  she  fell  into  a  frightful  stupor, 
from  which  nothing  could  rouse  her,  Nora  sent  for 
the  doctor.  He  left  drugs  to  be  administered,  say- 
ing that  it  would  be  dangerous,  night  or  day,  to 
leave  Annie  alone,  and  he  would  return  again  in  a 
few  hours.  Kitty  was  almost  helpless  in  her  grief 
for  Dave,  for  whom  she  had  conceived  a  strong 
regard.  Bridget  came  to  them  as  soon  as  she  heard 
the  terrible  tidings. 

John  Malone  and  Jack,  closeted  together,  quietly 
arranged  the  details  of  the  funeral.  It  was  mur- 
mured around  that  Dave's  remains  should  not  rest 
in  consecrated  ground,  owing  to  the  suicide.  Ma- 
lone  said  sternly  that  the  man  who  had  lived  in  his 
house  and  broken  bread  with  him,  should  have 
decent  burial,  whatever  his  sins  might  have  been. 
Nora  noticed  with  alarm  that  Malone  never 
approached  Annie  again,  or  even  asked  about  her. 

The  funeral  was  set  for  the  morning  of  the  27th. 
On  the  evening  of  the  26th  Jack  and  Bridget  re- 
turned to  their  home,  promising  to  be  over  next 
morning.  Bridget  spoke  to  Nora  of  Annie's  state. 
She  was  still  lying  in  that  deadly  comatose  condi- 
tion. The  doctor  came  after  dark  and  drew  Nora 
aside,  telling  her  that  toward  midnight  he  thought 
Annie  would  rouse;  to  guard  her  then  most  carefully. 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  273 

It  was  fully  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
Nora,  drowsing  uneasily  at  Annie's  bedside,  with 
one  hand  clasped  on  the  slender  wrist  of  her  mis- 
tress, heard  a  faint  whisper.  She  started.  Annie's 
eyes,  wide  open,  regarded  her  with  a  look  of  recog- 
nition. Nora  bent  her  head  to  catch  the  low  tones, 
"Where  is  he,  Nora?" 

Who  could  Annie  mean  ?  Nora's  eyes  looked 
the  question. 

"Dave,"  murmured  the  woman,  "where  have 
they  put  him  ?" 

"  He  is  not  buried  yet,"  answered  Nora. 

"  What  room  ?"  persisted  Annie,  "  where  ?" 

"  It's  in  the  back  parlor,  but  you  mustn't  think 
of  that,  Macushla  !"  whispered  Nora,  hurriedly,  for 
she  seemed  to  have  immediate  perception  of  An- 
nie's desire. 

"I  must  see  him,"  said  Annie,  sitting  up,  with 
eyes  fairly  glowing  through  the  dim  light,  "  I  will 
see  him  !  you  shan't  say  me  nay  !  How  can  I  be- 
lieve, unless  I  see  him  ?" 

"  But  the  watchers  !"  objected  Nora. 

"  Send  them  away  !"  Annie  commanded. 

Nora  saw  that  remonstrance  was  useless,  and 
softly  left  the  room.  The  watchers  sat  in  the  front 
parlor,  sound  asleep.  Having  satisfied  herself  on 
this  point,  Nora  quietly  closed  the  doors  of  commu- 
nication. 

Returning  to  Annie's  apartment  she  found  her 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  in  her  long 


274  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

white  night  dress,  like  a  ghost.  Nora,  throwing  a 
heavy  shawl  about  her,  silently  led  the  trembling 
creature  to  the  room  of  death,  warning  her,  "  for 
God's  sake,  to  be  quiet !"  In  that  room,  where 
they  had  met,  two  years  ago,  lay  the  coffined  form. 

Annie  looked  down  upon  the  icy  face  and 
pressed  her  lips  upon  the  unresponsive  mouth.  "  It 
was  for  me  you  did  it !"  she  muttered,  "  for  me  !  for 
me  !"  Then  she  whispered  something  to  the  sense- 
less clay.  "  Come,"  urged  Nora,  "  come  away,  you 
are  satisfied  now  !"  To  her  surprise  Annie  yielded 
at  once,  falling  soon  after  into  a  quiet  slumber. 

A  week  had  passed  since  the  funeral.  Annie, 
who  had  been  up  and  dressed  for  a  couple  of  days, 
moved  listlessly  about  her  room.  She  had  not  s^en 
her  husband  or  boy  since  Christmas  morning.  To 
Nora's  astonishment  Malone  had  sent  the  boy  to 
Bridget's  house  immediately,  and  he  had  been  there 
ever  since.  On  this  day  Annie,  for  the  first  time, 
asked  to  see  her  boy.  She  did  not  mention  her 
husband.  Nora  answered  with  some  constraint  that 
the  boy  was  with  Mrs.  Rooney.  Annie  regarded 
her  with  surprise,  but  said  no  more. 

During  the  week  Nora's  quickened  observation 
had  noted  many  things  ;  the  snowy  whiteness  of  the 
beloved  master's  hair ;  the  deep  furrows  in  his 
countenance,  always  stern  and  unsmiling  now  ;  the 
slow  and  heavy  step.  Then  she  knew  in  her  soul 
what  it  meant.  Malone  would  never  condone  his 
wife's  sin.  The  home  he  had  built  about  him 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  275 

would  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  She  looked  at  Annie, 
on  whom  no  intimation  of  this  had  yet  dawned, 
and  wondered. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Malone  beckoned 
to  Nora  that  he  would  speak  with  her.  He  told 
her  to  go  to  her  mistress'  room  and  mention  that 
Mr.  Malone  and  Mrs.  Rooney  wished  presently  to 
confer  with  her.  She  did  so.  Annie  received  the 
message  calmly.  In  a  few  minutes  the  old  man  and 
Bridget  entered  the  room.  The  old  man  did  not 
sit  down,  but  stood  looking  at  his  wife  with  a  stern 
dignity  of  manner  she  had  never  seen  in  him  before. 
Bridget  was  very  pale  and  downcast. 

"  Mrs.  Malone,"  said  John,  with  something  of  a 
quiver  in  his  voice,  "  You  will  understand  at  once 
what  I  wish  to  speak  of.  It  is  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  your  future.  After  all  that  has  happened 
it  would  be  impossible  that  you  should  reside  any 
longer  with  my  child  and  me.  I  have  made  arrange- 
ments for  a  comfortable  home  for  you  in  the  coun- 
try, where  all  your  wants  shall  be  supplied,  no 
expense  being  spared  toward  your  maintenance ; 
your  friend" — he  looked  at  Bridget  —  "will  arrange 
all  details  with  you." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room.  "  Stop ! "  ex- 
claimed Annie,  springing  to  her  feet.  "  Stop  !  and 
tell  me  this —  do  you  mean  to  take  my  boy  from 
me  !  Am  I  never  to  see  my  child  ?  " 

"You  have  your  infant,"  answered  the  old  man, 
sternly.  "  The  boy  is  mine  !  " 


276  ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

Without  another  word  he  left  the  room. 
"Bridget,"  cried  Annie, wildly,  " he  can't  mean  it ; 
he  can't  be  cruel  enough  for  that ;  tell  me  he  don't 
mean  it  !  I'll  do  anything  he  wants  me  to,  if  I 
can  see  my  boy  sometimes ;  no  penance  will  be  too 
heavy  for  me,  only  not  that !  not  that  !  " 

"  It's  no  use,"  said  Bridget,  sadly.  "  We  both 
tried  —  Jack  and  me  —  to  persuade  him  to  forgive 
you,  but  he's  so  proud  nothing  will  move  him.  I 
didn't  think  he  had  such  iron  in  his  nature.  Oh, 
Annie !  "  continued  Bridget,  in  a  flood  of  tears, 
"  how  could  you,  could  you  bring  all  this  about  ?" 

But  Annie  did  not  weep.  There  was  a  despair 
upon  her  that  no  tear  could  moisten,  no  cry  give 
vent  to.  Without  her  child  !  and  she  had  hoped 
that  little  hand  might  save  her  yet,  and  lead  her  on 
to  Heaven.  Whatever  Bridget  argued  or  explained 
Annie  never  seemed  to  heed,  but  sat  in  a  stony 
silence.  At  last  Bridget  had  to  leave  her.  The 
night  began  to  darken  around  her.  Nora  slipped 
into  the  room  with  food  and  light.  Annie  never 
noticed  ;  when  spoken  to  she  appeared  not  to  hear. 
Nora  undressed  her  and  put  her  to  bed  that  night, 
for  she  was  as  weak  as  a  baby.  No  word  or  token 
of  any  kind  escaped  her.  The  next  morning 
Kitty  and  Nora,  in  turns  peeping  into  the  room, 
found  that  the  mistress  still  slept.  It  was  getting 
very  late.  A  vague  uneasiness  possessed  Nora. 
She  would  see  why  the  mistress  slept  so  long.  She 
pulled  the  blind  up  gently,  and,  turning  the  light 


ALL  ON  A  CHRISTMAS  EVE.  277 

of  morning  on  the  fair  face,  saw  her  mistress  lay 
there  —  dead  ! 

They  found  afterwards,  concealed  in  the  bed 
clothes,  the  remainder  of  the  poison  she  had  taken. 

v 

Since  the  time  of  which  we  write  the  snows  of 
winter  and  the  sunshine  of  summer  have  twice  lain 
upon  the  beautiful  park.  On  the  spot  where  Dave's 
life's  blood  stained  the  grass  happy  children  are 
picking  dandelions.  Through  the  shady  walks 
where  he  and  Annie  wandered  lovers  go  arm  in 
arm,  and  far  apart,  in  their  dishonored  graves,  lie 
the  principals  of  this  little  tragedy. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  large  house  near  the  park 
an  old  man  may  sometimes  be  seen  looking  out 
upon  the  now  busy  thoroughfare.  He  seldom 
smiles.  There  is  a  settled  sadness  in  the  lines 
about  his  mouth  and  eyes,  even  when  he  looks 
fondly  down  upon  a  beautiful,  golden-haired  boy, 
who,  clinging  to  him,  calls  him  father. 

Nora,  who  has  grown  palpably  much  older, 
looks  tenderly  after  the  wants  of  the  young  and 
the  old  master. 

In  their  quiet  home  Jack  and  Bridget,  sur- 
rounded by  an  ever-increasing  brood  of  young 
Rooneys,  live  their  happy  lives. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

THERE  lived  in  a  large  city  two  brothers,  named 
Romulus  and  Remus.  Now  don't  imagine  that  we 
are  going  to  give  you  a  page  from  ancient  history, 
for  we  aren't ;  our  page  is  from  prosaic  modern  fact. 

If  it  was  the  perusal  of  Roman  history  which 
led  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  to  bestow  these  names  upon 
her  boys,  it  certainly  was  the  only  history  she  ever 
perused.  She  must  have  read  it  at  a  very  early 
age,  for  her  life,  from  a  period  when  she  was  ex- 
tremely young,  was  devoted  to  providing  herself 
with  the  necessary  bread  and  butter,  her  education 
being  circumscribed  to  the  arithmetical  problem 
connected  with  the  gaining  of  said  subsistence. 
When  she  reached  her  twenty-sixth  year,  and  had 
so  far  solved  that  problem  that,  by  industry  and 
saving  propensities,  she  was  established  in  a  little 
business  of  her  own,  she  became  luxurious  and  com- 
mitted her  first  extravagance.  That  is  to  say,  she 
married.  She  was  not  a  sentimental  woman,  not 
at  all ;  that  she  should  do  such  a  thing  as  this,  had 
never  entered  her  calculations.  But  somehow  this 
step  is  not  always  a  matter  of  calculation ;  in  some 
cases  it  is  one  of  speculation  ;'with  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe 
it  was  a  sudden,  a  most  unaccountable  one  of  affec- 
tion. 

281 


282  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

Mr.  Ellinthorpe  brought  to  this  union  a  little 
money  and  considerable  ability.  He  put  both  of 
these  requisites  into  the  business  and  it  flourished 
like  a  green  bay  tree.  In  due  course  of  time  Mrs. 
Ellinthorpe  presented  her  husband  with  a  baby 
boy,  and  when  she  asked  her  consort  his  opinion 
on  the  name  of  Romulus,  that  gentleman,  who  had 
never  heard  the  name  before,  pronounced  it 
a  "  high  sounder,"  saying,  "  give  it  to  him,  my 
dear." 

When  little  Romulus  was  nearing  his  third  year 
a  baby  brother  was  added  to  the  family  group. 
Then  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe,  having  a  faint  remem- 
brance of  brotherhood  between  Romulus  and  Re- 
mus, declared  her  intention  of  bestowing  the  latter 
name  upon  her  youngest  offspring. 

Her  husband  pointed  out  to  her  that  there  was 
only  one  objection  ;  that  both  his  sons  would  have 
names  beginning  with  the  letter  R,  which  would 
make  a  mixed  up  state  of  things  when  it  came  to 
signatures.  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  proved  equal  to  the 
situation,  declaring  that  Remus,  having  the  shortest 
name,  could  always  sign  his  in  full.  In  this  way 
the  difference  of  opinion  was  settled.  When  Re- 
mus was  four  years  old,  everything  in  the  business 
was  going  on  finely.  Mr.  Ellinthorpe  had  specu- 
lative tendencies  and  branched  out  in  the  way  of 
expenditures  for  the  improvement  of  the  business 
which  his  wife  thought  rather  daring.  She  remon- 
strated, but  he  figured  it  out  to  her  so  conclusively 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  283 

as  to  the  ultimate  benefit  to  be  derived,   that  she 
reluctantly  yielded  to  his  ideas. 

These  ideas  were  progressive — in  fact,  excellent 
— if  Mr.  Ellinthorpe  had  not  made  one  slight  mis- 
take. He  had  not  calculated  on  the  possibility  of 
dying  before  his  plans  could  be  carried  out.  But 
die  he  did,  at  a  most  inconvenient  time,  leaving 
his  widow  with  the  charge  of  the  two  little  boys, 
and  a  business  with  a  debt  upon  it.  Mrs.  Ellin- 
thorpe treated  this  misfortune  as  she  did  those  of 
her  younger  days.  She  immediately  put  her 
shoulder  to  the  wheel ;  she  also  put  her  boys  into 
public  school  as  soon  as  their  ages  permitted.  She 
worked  hard  with  both  brain  and  hands.  She 
would  try  and  keep  her  boys  at  school  till  they 
reached  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age,  then  they 
could  help  her  in  the  business.  So,  after  a  fatigu- 
ing day  in  the  store,  the  mother  would  sit  near  her 
sleeping  youngsters  wearily  patching  their  clothes. 
Then,  as  she  stitched,  she  planned.  She  would 
see  herself  walking  along  the  street  a  white-headed 
old  lady,  neatly  dressed ;  on  either  side  of  her 
walked  a  son,  tall  and  handsome.  She  would  see 
herself  a  white-headed  old  lady,  sitting  in  an  ele- 
gantly furnished  house  on  a  fine  street.  Opposite 
her  sat  the  sons.  Grown  men  now,  fashionably 
dressed  and  stylish  looking,  they  caressed  and 
praised  her,  telling  her  that  in  her  old  age  she 
should  work  no  more  but  live  in  luxury.  Then 
the  mother  would  smile  in  these  waking  dreams 


284  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

even  as  the  tears  coursed  down  her  face,  and  look 
tenderly  at  the  sleeping  children. 

Being  brought  up  in  so  hard  a  school,  Mrs. 
Ellinthorpe  had  an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  value 
of  money.  She  had,  in  early  youth,  of  necessity, 
formed  the  habit  of  denying  herself  things  which 
involved  the  expenditure  of  cash.  What  she  had 
at  first  done  under  pressure  of  circumstances, 
she  now  did  as  a  habit, — even  after  the  liabilities 
which  came  upon  her  with  her  husband's  death  had 
been  discharged,  and  she  began  to  accumulate 
something  in  bank, — she  still  kept  up  her  strict 
retrenchment  of  expenditure.  She  intended  to 
give  the  boys  a  good  start ;  she  had  borne  the  bur- 
den and  heat  of  the  day  for  them  ;  they  should  not 
work  under  every  disadvantage  as  she  had  done ; 
she  would  teach  them  as  they  grew  up ;  all  that  she 
had  learned  by  such  severe  experience  she  would 
instil  into  them, — those  money-making  doctrines, 
which  had  placed  her  in  the  position  to  give  them 
so  good  a  start. 

At  seasons  of  the  year  when  business  was  brisk 
she  confiscated  many  of  their  play  hours  after 
school,  sometimes  even  Sundays  as  well  as  Satur- 
days, to  helping  her  in  the  store.  By  this  she 
hoped  to  train  their  understandings.  Romulus 
took  to  this  kindly  enough,  but  little  Remus  fre- 
quently rebelled.  Under  these  disadvantages 
church  and  Sunday-school  proved  things  that  the 
boys  only  knew  of  by  hearsay. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  285 

One  Sunday  evening,  in  the  fall  of  the  year, 
when  the  days  were  shortening  fast,  the  little  boys 
—  Romulus  was  then  in  his  tenth  year  —  coaxed 
the  mother  to  take  a  walk  with  them.  The  night 
was  darkening  around  them.  They  came  presently 
to  a  large  edifice  most  brilliantly  lighted  ;  as  they 
were  passing,  ravishing  strains  of  solemn  music 
rolled  through  the  open  doors.  Romulus  clasped 
his  hands  together  ecstatically.  "  Oh,  mother,"  he 
cried,  "  how  beautiful  it  is  !  Is  it  a  theatre  ?" 

"  Hush,  child !"  said  his  mother,  in  a  scandal- 
ized voice,  as  she  pulled  him  along,  "  it  is  a  church!" 

Put  one  idea  before  a  child  from  infancy,  edu- 
cate him  to  it  as  he  grows  older,  inculcate  it  con- 
stantly by  "precept  and  example,"  and  that  child 
will  have  the  thing  as  thoroughly  branded  into  him, 
as  ineffaceably  marked  upon  him,  as  is  the  brand 
upon  the  wild  cattle  of  our  plains.  It  becomes  a 
part  of  him,  just  as  much  as  the  food  he  eats  and 
the  air  he  breathes.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  however, 
that  the  same  precepts  may  produce  widely  differ- 
ent results  in  differing  individualities. 

Romulus  had  been  brought  up  to  think  that 
money  or  property — money's  representative — was 
the  summum  bonum  ;  that  to  obtain  and  hold  this 
was  the  aim  of  life  —  all  that  existence  contained 
worth  the  having.  He  proved  very  pliant  to  these 
doctrines.  His  mother  would  say  to  him,  "The 
great  principle  is  this  —  hold  fast  to  all  you  can  get 
and  grab  for  more."  She  would  add,  "Make  peo- 


286  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

pie,  as  well  as  inanimate  things,  useful  to  you.  If 
you  are  half  way  smart  you  can  make  people  you 
are  thrown  in  with  work  for  and  with  you  ;  a  little 
judicious  flattery,  which  is  always  inexpensive,  goes 
a  long  way  and  brings  large  returns.  It  is  com- 
mendable to  quietly  and  slyly  take  advantage  of 
those  you  meet ;  always  bearing  in  mind,"  she  con- 
tinued, "that  they  would  do  the  same  by  you  if  they 
could  get  the  chance." 

Mrs.  Ellinthorpe's  success  with  Romulus  was 
extremely  gratifying.  He  followed  her  instructions 
to  the  letter ;  even  in  early  boyhood  he  developed 
traits  which  filled  her  with  proud  joy.  In  games 
with  other  boys  he  came  off  victorious,  especially  in 
those  games  where  a  sharp  lookout  for  the  "  main 
chance"  —  a  gentle  sleight  of  hand,  a  cunning 
which  at  times  became  almost  unscrupulous  — 
could  aid  him  ;  the  result  was  that  his  pockets 
bulged  with  marbles,  pennies,  jack-knives,  bits  of 
elegant  twine  —  all  those  things  prized  by  youth. 

We  regret  that  as  a  truthful  historian  we  are 
obliged  to  record  one  unpleasant  fact  connected 
with  these  youthful  smartnesses ;  that  is,  that  few 
of  his  boy  associates  liked  him  ;  after  a  few  games 
with  this  genius  his  financial  prowess  rather  alarmed 
them,  and  they  "  fought  shy"  of  him. 

Remus  was  a  sad  proof  of  what  different  results 
may  spring  from  the  same  course  of  training.  It 
was  very  strange ;  he  had  been  educated  to  habits 
of  actual  stinginess ;  the  coin  of  his  country  was 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  287 

placed  before  him  continually  as  the  shining  goal 
of  all  ambition  ;  those  valuable  precepts  to  which 
the  well-regulated  mind  of  Romulus  leaned  natu- 
rally and  gracefully,  had  been  carefully  bestowed 
upon  Remus  with  results  which  caused  his  mother 
anxious  pangs  for  his  future.  In  very  early  boy- 
hood Remus  began  to  display  his  improper  tenden- 
cies. He  saw  that  money  was  very  hard  to  get ; 
consequently  the  instant  he  secured  a  piece  of  it 
he  spent  it,  arguing  that  as  it  was  unlikely  he  could 
get  any  more  for  sometime  to  come  he  had  better 
make  the  most  of  his  opportunity.  This  wrong 
principle  he  applied  to  everything ;  if  he  had  an 
extra  supply  of  cake,  marbles,  etc.,  he  ran  off  to 
share  with  his  boy  friends.  In  all  games  of  chance, 
in  which  he  was  remarkably  successful,  being  blessed 
with  a  large  stock  of  what  is  usually  termed  "  fool's 
luck,"  he  would  turn  around  immediately  and  di- 
vide with  the  ones  he  had  gained  from.  Of  course 
all  this  had  the  sequence  which  might  be  expected. 
Remus,  who  was  not  half  so  smart  as  Romulus,  not 
near  as  good-looking,  soft-voiced  or  affable,  was 
everybody's  darling,  His  playmates  would  hang 
in  large  numbers  about  the  back  door  waiting  and 
calling  for  their  favorite.  Whatever  good  thing 
was  going,  they  invariably  saved  some  of  it  for 
Remus.  If  they  owned  some  elegant  retreat  under 
a  sidewalk,  fitted  up  with  old  barrels,  boxes  and 
bits  of  carpet,  stolen  from  their  mothers'  backyards 
and  kitchens,  Remus  was  invited  to  join  this  select 


288  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

circle  and  become  president  of  their  gang.  Here, 
smoking  cigarettes  and  short  clay  pipes  filled  with 
the  foulest  tobacco,  with  an  occasional  swig  at  some 
beastly  beer,  they  would  play  cards  and  tell  stories 
at  times  when  the  parents  never  dreamed  of  their 
dear  ones  being  engaged  in  these  pursuits.  Here 
Remus  would  share  all  his  earthly  possessions  with 
the  boys ;  when  he  did  not  give  them  more,  they 
knew  it  was  because  he  hadn't  it.  He  would  fight 
for,  as  well  as  with  them,  which  proofs  of  affection 
they  returned  in  kind.  Yet  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe,  in 
spite  of  these  irregularities  in  Remus,  couldn't  help 
loving  him  very  much.  If  she  felt  ill  Remus  would 
spend  every  cent  he  could  procure  to  purchase  some 
little  dainty  for  her,  expressing  his  affection  for 
her  in  looks  and  caresses  as  well.  The  coldest  na- 
ture would  melt  under  the  geniality  of  his  "ne'er- 
do-well"  disposition  ;  then  the  poor  woman  would 
sighingly  reproach  herself  for  loving  this  boy  so 
much  when  his  brother  was  in  every  respect  so 
superior  to  him. 

Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  could  feel  that  even  in  mat- 
ters of  the  affections  Romulus  was  cold  and  calcu- 
lating, when  he  bestowed  a  smile  or  caress  upon 
his  mother  it  was  invariably  the  preface  to  some 
request.  This  became  more  pronounced  as  he 
grew  older.  She  experienced  that  curious  contra- 
diction of  feeling  which  makes  us  rather  regret 
the  rapid  advancement  of  the  pupil  who  has  gone 
beyond  our  teaching. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  289 

Romulus  loved  power ;  if  Remus  had  been  as 
calculating  and  selfish  as  himself  he  would  have 
found  in  him  a  powerful  opponent,  as  it  was, 
his  brother's  good-natured  follies  made  a  smooth 
way  for  Romulus.  He  became  what  from  child- 
hood he  had  aimed  to  be,  his  mother's  sole  friend 
and  adviser. 

In  early  manhood  she  confided  to  him  that  she 
had  managed  to  accumulate  some  moneys ;  that 
they  lived  in  a  mean  and  close  way  as  a  safeguard  ; 
that  with  Remus's  extravagant  notions  it  would  be 
as  well  to  keep  him  ignorant  of  the  real  state  of 
their  finances ;  that  the  world  at  large  was  always 
on  the  lookout  to  take  advantage  of  those  possess- 
ing any  substance  and  wrest  it  from  them  ;  that 
knowing  this,  she  and  Romulus  would  keep  their 
own  counsel  and  go  on  making  and  hoarding  just 
as  much  money  as  they  possibly  could.  To  all  of 
which  Romulus  yielded  a  ready  assent,  particularly 
to  that  portion  relating  to  Remus.  He  had  two- 
fold reason  for  this;  one  was,  that  Remus,  care- 
less spendthrift  though  he  was,  had  useful  qualities. 
He  liked  —  actually  liked — to  work  hard  ;  he  could 
do  the  physical  work  of  a  man  when  only  fifteen 
years  old.  The  really  laborious  portion  of  their 
business  fell  upon  the  shoulders  of  Remus,  and 
what  extra  help  they  had  to  employ  in  the  busy 
seasons. 

Romulus  hated  to  work  with  his  hands ;  to  sit 
hours  at  a  time  with  a  bit  of  paper  and  pencil  be- 


290  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

fore  him,  figuring  out  the  possible  or  probable 
profits  of  an  investment,  was  just  what  suited  his 
peculiar  genius. 

He  represented  to  his  mother  that  he  was  much 
more  useful  to  her  in  managing  her  pecuniary 
affairs  —  reducing  her  expenditures  by  the  simple 
process  of  getting  as  much  as  he  could  for  as  little 
as  possible,  arranging  for  the  investment  of  means 
not  needed  in  the  business  —  than  he  could  be  at 
mere  drudgery,  which  they  could  hire  done  at  a 
very  low  figure. 

To  all  such  representations  his  mother  yielded 
more  and  more.  The  other  reason  was,  that  by 
keeping  Remus  in  ignorance  as  to  their  real  finan- 
cial standing,  it  would  hold  that  young  person  as 
his  mother's  willing  servitor ;  his  affection  for  her 
would  preclude  entirely  the  notion  of  leaving  her 
so  long  as  her  circumstances  seemed  strained ; 
then,  too,  Romulus  would  in  all  respects  "hold  the 
whip  hand." 

The  years,  rolling  steadily  around  their  circle, 
had  brought  Romulus  to  his  twenty-third  year, 
when  a  new  anxiety  came  upon  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe. 
It  seemed  to  her  a  sudden  thing,  yet  indications 
of  it  had  been  in  the  air  for  some  time.  It  was  in 
the  Spring,  a  warm  evening  of  the  Sabbath  day, 
that  sitting  beside  her  son  on  the  front  porch  she 
noticed  him  start  whilst  a  deep  blush  overspread  his 
fair  face.  She  looked  for  the  cause,  which  proved  to 
be  merely  a  pretty  girl  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  291 

A  distracting  light  flashed  on  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe, 
a  long  vista  of  probabilities  opened  before  her  with 
a  marriage  altar  in  the  perspective.  This  was  a 
serious  outlook.  She  must  take  a  little  time  to 
think  it  over  ;  for  Romulus  to  marry  would  be  to 
shatter  that  golden  fabric  she  had  reared  in  her 
imagination.  Where  would  that  rich  old  lady, 
with  the  white  head  and  the  adoring  sons,  be  then  ? 
When  a  young  man  had  a  mother  who  was  devot- 
ing herself  to  his  interests,  his  advancement  in  life, 
all  that  he  needed  to  be  happy,  why  should  he 
wish  to  marry  ?  No,  it  would  never  do !  She 
must  quiet  this  bugbear  of  her  mind  by  exacting  a 
promise  from  Romulus  that  he  wouldn't  let  him- 
self do  anything  as  unnecessary  and  absurd  as 
marriage.  But  how  to  speak  of  it  ?  Such  sub- 
jects had  never  formed  matter  for  their  conversa- 
tions. How  could  she  bring  it  about  ?  It  must 
be  done,  and  soon  too,  else  he  might  thoughtlessly 
allow  his  affections  to  become  entangled.  She  did 
it  the  very  first  opportunity  she  got  to  talk  to  him 
alone  ;  she  did  it  with  a  suddenness  that  almost 
took  his  breath  away. 

"  Romulus,"  she  said,  "you  must  never  marry  !" 

A  burning  blush  suffused  the  young  man's  face 
and  he  made  no  reply. 

"Romulus,"  she  repeated,  anxiously,  "you  must 
not  think  of  such  a  thing  !  You  know  that  every 
effort  of  my  life  has  been,  and  is,  for  you;  think  of 
the  expense  marriage  would  bring  you,  of  the  pre- 


292  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

occupation  of  mind.  You  would  not  care  to  help 
your  mother  through  her  difficulties  then ;  your 
neart  would  be  all  on  your  wife." 

"Mother,"  said  Romulus, —  he  had  by  this 
time  regained  his  composure, — "you  need  do  no 
fretting  on  that  score.  I  think,"  he  continued, 
reproachfully,  "you  have  found  me  faithful  to  you 
so  far.  Have  I  ever  hinted  a  wish  to  marry  ?  You 
know  I  haven't." 

This  was  true,  but  she  did  not  feel  quite  satis- 
fied yet. 

"  Promise  me  then  that  you  won't,"  she  insisted. 
"You  know  that  it  is  for  you  I  am  saving  and 
scrimping.  I  want  you  to  be  rich  and  respected. 
(Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  could  not  disassociate  respectabil- 
ity from  wealth).  If  you,  as  a  young  man,  should 
marry  and  hamper  yourself  with  a  family,  it  would 
be  dreadful." 

"Oh,  well!"  said  Romulus,  rather  moodily, 
"  I'll  promise  not  to,  if  that  will  satisfy  you." 

It  was  harder  for  Romulus  to  promise  this  than 
his  mother  knew,  for  he  was  already  rather  deeply 
involved  in  a  young  man's  first  passion.  With  his 
usual  reticence,  he  had  kept  the  matter  to  himself, 
more  especially  as  he  had  persuaded  his  mother  to 
put  some  of  her  spare  capital  into  some  real  estate 
ventures,  and  saw  that  marriage  was  an  extremely 
remote  prospect  for  him.  He  had  also,  with  his 
customary  cunning  foresight,  given  the  object  of 
his  passion  to  understand  that  this  might  be  con- 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  293 

sidered  flirtation  on  his  part,  nothing  more  ;  that 
is,  he  had  given  her  to  understand  this  in  words, 
but  actions,  in  these  cases,  have  more  effect  than 
talk.  When  the  young  man  of  her  preference 
looks  ardent  love  into  a  girl's  eyes,  takes  every 
opportunity  of  meeting  her,  conveys  affection  to 
her  in  every  way  except  language,  she  generally 
feels  quite  sure  that  she  will  secure  him  soon. 

In  thinking  about  it,  Romulus  felt  the  wisdom 
of  the  course  he  had  pursued  with  Luella  in  never 
asking  her  to  be  his  wife ;  to  be  sure,  he  had 
accepted  many  gifts  from  her — pledges  of  the 
young  girl's  real  love  for  him — but  then,  in  his 
estimation,  that  was  nothing.  Of  all  this  his 
mother  had  been  profoundly  ignorant.  He  would 
take  his  time  to  it,  since  it  must  be  done,  breaking 
his  romance  with  Luella  slowly  and  gently.  Then 
he  shed  a  few  tears  over  his  own  disappointments. 

His  was  the  kind  of  nature  which  hardens  under 
such  a  shower ;  every  tear  he  shed  strengthened 
his  determination  to  end  his  amorous  difficulties. 
For  him  to  marry  was  out  of  the  question  ;  his 
mother,  in  her  anger,  would  disinherit  him,  and 
love  without  money  to  ease  the  way — pooh !  he 
couldn't  think  of  it.  He  was  a  coward  at  heart ; 
he  dreaded  to  face  Luella's  grief  when  he  struck 
the  final  blow.  He  would  postpone  it  as  long 
as  possible.  Circumstances  favored  this  design, 
as  his  sweetheart  was  obliged  to  leave  the  city 
for  the  best  share  of  a  year,  to  accompany  an 


294  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

ailing  relative  to  California.  The  poor  girl  went 
away  quite  happy,  feeling  that  Romulus  really 
loved  her,  and  that  the  rest  was  only  a  question  of 
time.  They  corresponded,  too,  in  a  strictly 
Platonic  fashion.  Romulus  was  very  careful  in 
this  respect,  for  he  had  heard  something  of  suits 
for  "breach  of  promise." 

The  worry  of  this  love  affair  being  temporarily 
laid  aside,  he  turned  the  efforts  of  his  intellect  into 
their  favorite  channel — money  making.  Like  his 
father,  he  had  strong  speculative  tendencies ;  he 
had,  into  the  bargain,  a  pretty  high  opinion  of  his 
own  smartness.  A  man  who  is  cunning  and  un- 
scrupulous is  seldom  long  at  meeting  his  match. 
With  the  vanity  of  youth,  he  could  not  resist  talk- 
ing to  the  men  he  met  about  what  he  would  do  if 
he  had  the  means ;  how  much  there  was  in  this 
venture  and  that. 

One  day  a  cunning  old  fox  came  in  his  direc- 
tion ;  he  listened  intently  to  the  brags  of  this 
beardless  youth,  then  quietly  spread  a  net  for  him. 
This  white-whiskered  fox  had  had  many  experi- 
ences with  youths  like  this;  he  knew  just  how  to 
catch  and  fleece  them.  The  cunning  of  the  young 
man  was  a  coarse  thing  beside  the  oily  craft  of  the 
older  one.  He  drew  his  game  so  gently  toward 
the  net,  with  manipulations  so  quiet,  yet  so  sure, 
that  the  other  never  knew  he  was  caught  until  the 
older,  having  secured  what  he  wanted,  threw  off 
his  mask.  That  was  how  Romulus  came  to  be 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  295 

owner  of  a  piece  of  land  comprising  forty  acres. 
Such  a  bit  of  land,  regarded  from  a  farmer's  stand- 
point, wouldn't  amount  to  much.  The  soil  was 
gravelly  and  yielded  a  growth  of  stubborn  weeds. 
It  was  nothing  to  look  at,  being  only  a  piece  of 
extra  desolateness  set  in  corresponding  loneliness 
upon  the  prairie  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city ;  but 
the  fox  had  dressed  it  in  prismatic  colors.  He  had 
shown  where  streets  would  run  through  it,  where 
churches  and  schoolhouses  would  be  built  upon  it, 
where  a  depot  would  be  placed ;  how  in  a  short 
time — say  two  years  at  farthest — this  land  would 
be  parcelled  off  into  building  lots,  selling  at  prices 
to  yield  an  enormous  percentage  on  the  original 
cost. 

The  fact  was,  the  fox  had  more  than  he  could 
carry,  and  wanted  to  unload,  but  Romulus  didn't 
know  this  until  later.  The  young  man  had  assured 
himself  of  one  thing  before  purchasing,  that  was 
that  a  railroad  line  was  actually  surveyed  through 
this  locality  in  such  a  way  that  said  road  would 
bound  his  acres  on  one  side.  This  was  a  large 
purchase  considering  the  limited  means  at  his  dis- 
posal. He  induced  his  mother  to  mortgage  some 
property  she  owned  in  order  to  meet  the  expense 
of  this.  "It  will  be  only  a  little  while,  mother," 
he  said  gayly,  "when  it  will  be  returned  to  you 
seven-fold." 

His  mother,  carried  along  the  stream  of  his  san- 
guine hopes,  was  delighted,  and  she  listened  with 


296  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

keen  interest  to  all  his  plans.  Together  they  pre- 
pared a  receptacle  for  the  golden  showers  which 
would  surely  fall  their  way. 

All  this  time  Remus  rollicked  carelessly  and 
cheerfully  through  his  days  of  laborious  toil.  He 
spent  most  of  his  evenings  with  the  young  fellows 
of  his  own  age,  laughing  at  his  serious  brother,  who 
pored  over  papers  and  plans  and  figured  away  in- 
cessantly, yet  never  seemed  to  grow  any  richer. 
They  kept  the  light-hearted  boy  in  profound  ig- 
norance of  all  their  investments  and  hopes  ;  in  the 
meantime  he  took  gratefully  the  simple  pleasures 
his  condition  in  life  afforded  him. 

The  year  of  Luella's  exile  was  nearing  comple- 
tion. A  newer  and  deeper  interest  now  possessed 
her  recreant  lover.  He  fancied  that  he  felt  the 
throes  of  the  tender  passion  again.  In  this  case 
his  feelings  needed  no  restraining  hand,  as  he  was 
positive  that  his  interest,  as  well  as  love,  would  be 
gratified  without  the  bogy  of  marriage  to  terrify 
him. 

The  lady  who  brought  all  this  about  had  grown 
into  his  existence  so  gradually  that  he  could 
scarcely  recall  the  time  of  her  coming.  A  lady  of 
fine  figure  and  graceful  manners  had  frequently 
called  in  at  his  place  of  business  to  make  pur- 
chases. He  could  not  quite  tell  how  it  was  that 
they  fell  to  conversing  with  each  other.  He  was 
cognizant  of  an  atmosphere  about  her  differing 
from  the  women  who  usually  frequented  the  place, 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  297 

an  intangible  air  of  refinement.  She  talked  with  a 
kindness  which  seemed  a  part  of  her  everyday  life  ; 
she  was  earnest  and  unaffected,  yet  had  a  softened 
sadness  about  her.  Romulus,  who  was  always  keen 
in  his  notice  of  such  adjuncts,  saw  the  diamonds  at 
her  throat  and  on  her  fingers,  the  unstudied  ele- 
gance of  her  apparel  and  her  lavish  use  of  money. 
She  spoke  frequently  of  her  loneliness — her  hus- 
band was  absent  a  great  share  of  the  time ;  she  had 
no  children  ;  time  was  heavy  on  her  hands.  She 
told  him  that  she  envied  people  who  had  keen  in- 
terests in  life,  imperative  duties  therein.  This 
drew  him  to  telling  her,  with  the  bombastic  frank- 
ness of  youth,  that  few  young  men  had  so  many 
cares  and  poignant  anxieties  as  his ;  that  measuring 
years  by  the  worries  and  responsibilities  they  car- 
ried for  him,  he  often  felt  he  had  reached  the  ma- 
ture age  of  a  hundred.  She  smiled  softly,  yet 
sympathetically,  at  all  this,  looking  at  him  mean- 
while in  a  way  which  bespoke  profound  interest — 
flattering  attention. 

Romulus  dropped  unconsciously  into  the  smooth 
currents  of  these  personal  discourses,  gliding  easily 
on,  as  one  sails  blissfully  on  the  bosom  of  some 
untried  river,  knowing  nothing  of  shoals  and  rocks 
beyond.  He  was  all  the  more  at  ease  because  his 
new  friend,  being  somewhat  his  senior,  treated  him 
as  one  treats  a  favorite  child  with  a  sort  of  gentle 
tolerance  of  his  youth — a  free  hearted  manner,  too, 
which  had  nothing  of  boldness  in  it. 


298  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

She  was  a  type  of  woman  previously  unknown 
to  him.  Frivolous  girls  who  giggled  and  chattered 
incessantly,  staid  matrons  with  constant  sugges- 
tions of  cookery  about  them,  ladies  of  slight  repu- 
tations with  rouged  cheeks,  bold  eyes  and  voices — 
all  these  he  had  met  and  conversed  with,  but  never 
before  this  a  woman  whose  conversational  powers 
embraced  all  subjects,  who  spoke  of  worlds  of  lit- 
erature and  art  hitherto  unheard  of  by  him,  who 
could  dress  even  the  commonest  incidents  of  life 
in  a  language  where  pathos  and  humor  sat  side  by 
side  and  never  jostled,  yet  withal  arrogated  noth- 
ing to  herself,  making  him  feel — he  scarcely  knew 
why — much  better  satisfied  with  himself,  much 
prouder  and  more  hopeful  during  a  talk  with  her 
than  he  had  ever  felt  before. 

He  passed  weeks  and  months  in  a  state  of  sweet 
complacency.  From  the  sky  of  hope  one  bright 
star  shone  on  him  with  a  steady  radiance.  He 
never  said  to  himself  what  that  star  was,  but  in 
his  soul  he  knew  it  was  the  certainty  that  he  would 
sometimes  see  and  talk  with  her.  This  feeling 
was  the  more  insidious  that  it  partook  of  nothing 
in  the  nature  of  desire,  he  never  looked  for  her 
coming  with  the  feverish  unrest  which  character- 
ized his  love  for  Luella,  no  blushes  heralded  her 
approach — only  a  tender  contentment,  a  quiet 
though  intense  joy.  Luella's  return  at  this  period 
was  like  a  harsh  vibration,  a  sudden  break  in  the 
finest  part  of  some  splendid  anthem. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  299 

An  unpleasant  business  confronted  Romulus ; 
he  must  break  with  Luella  at  once,  and  prevent  the 
possible  chance  of  these  ladies  meeting  each  other 
when  seeking  his  society.  Imaginary  pictures  of 
Luella  in  hysterics  and  his  other  lady  friend  look- 
ing on  with  that  slow,  peculiar  smile  upon  her  lips, 
haunted  him.  So  he  sent  a  nice  little  note  to 
Luella  as  soon  as  he  knew  of  her  return,  asking 
her  to  meet  and  walk  with  him  next  day  in  a  se- 
questered place,  as  he  had  something  very  import- 
ant to  say  to  her.  The  poor  girl  was  delighted 
beyond  measure  by  this  proof  of  his  regard.  When 
she  appeared,  all  blushes  and  smiles,  to  meet  him, 
he  was  surprised  to  find  what  a  cast-iron  strength 
had  grown  into  his  heart  during  the  last  year.  He 
told  her  with  cruel  distinctness  that  their  meetings 
must  end  with  this  one ;  that  his  mother  discoun- 
tenanced anything  of  the  sort.  He  could  never ! 
never  !  do  anything  to  distress  his  dear  mother .'  At 
this  point  Romulus  shed  tears. 

Since  the  days  of  our  first  mother,  whose  unfor- 
tunate curiosity  led  to  those  events  which  exclud- 
ed us  all  from  Eden,  it  has  been  very  much  the 
fashion  to  place  the  blame  of  most  shortcomings 
and  misfortunes  upon  women,  particularly  mothers. 
This  fashion,  like  others,  has  many  contradictions, 
for  woman,  serving  so  frequently  as  the  recipient 
of  contumely,  is  at  other  times  "lauded  to  the 
skies"  with  a  most  lavish  expenditure  of  vocabu- 
lary in  regard  to  her  virtues. 


300  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

The  mother,  poor  dear  soul,  is  put  to  many 
uses  that  she  wots  not  of.  We  all  know  the  ordin- 
ary duties  assigned  her — the  controling  of  her 
domestic  and  social  matters.  She  is  the  homely, 
grubbing,  comfortable  soul  who  flits  genially  about 
the  dining  room  and  kitchen,  carrying  to  the 
senses  of  her  family  and  friends  the  aroma  of  well- 
cooked  dinners  and  bountiful  picnic  supplies. 
But  more  than  this,  she  is  the  "kicking  post"  for 
the  whole  family,  so  that  if  anything  is  lost  or  miss- 
ing a  demand  immediately  ensues  upon  "  mother," 
with  expressions  of  incredulity  and  anger  should 
she  fail  to  know  of  its  whereabouts.  Likewise  in 
any  domestic  difficulties,  there  is  always  a  generous 
desire  on  the  part  of  the  rest  to  allow  mother  her 
full  share  of  the  blame. 

On  the  whole  the  life  of  mother  is  anything  but 
rose  color ;  from  morning  till  night  her  patient 
feet  perform  their  endless  task ;  her  anxious  brain 
plans,  her  tired  hands  execute.  The  men  of  the 
household  getting  home  from  their  daily  avoca- 
tions, take  the  easiest  chairs  and  read  the  evening 
papers  till  mother  summons  them  to  supper  ;  then, 
when  enjoying  with  keen  relish  the  viands  care- 
fully culled  from  the  housekeeper's  stores  by  the 
thoughtful  soul  who  presides  not  over  but  at  the 
meal,  they  uncork  the  vials  of  their  wrath — that  is, 
the  accumulated  annoyances  of  the  day — upon  the 
devoted  head  of  mother. 

All  this  mother  may  in  her~secret  soul  object  to. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND,  3O1 

She  seldom  does  so  verbally,  such  scenes  are  not 
unexpected  to  her.  If  the  meal  passes  in  peace 
and  joviality,  as  it  occasionally  does,  she  nibbles 
on  these  crumbs  of  comfort,  feeling  grateful  for 
this  short  respite.  That  the  catastrophes  of  the 
family  in  general  should  be  laid  at  her  door  does 
not  surprise  her  any  more  than  the  fact  that  when 
her  sons,  daughters,  or  husband  are  in  an  agree- 
able humor,  they  load  her  with  commendations 
quite  as  extravagant  as  their  usual  fault  finding. 
Mother  is  used  to  all  this,  she  makes  very  little  out- 
ward manifestation  as  to  any  feelings  she  may 
have.  There  is  a  portion  of  mother's  life  where 
she  is  very  conspicuous,  in  reality  the  principal 
actor  upon  the  stage  of  every  emotion,  yet  she  is 
totally  unconscious  of  the  part  she  plays.  When 
her  son,  with  glistening  eyes  and  thrilling  elo- 
quence, is  telling  his  young  lady  friend  that  his 
mother  is  the  noblest  and  sweetest  woman  upon 
earth,  the  poor  soul  alluded  to  is  sitting  in  the 
back  room  darning  his  hose  and  trying  to  remem- 
ber when  he  last  kissed  or  spoke  kindly  to  her. 

A  mother  is  a  handy  thing  to  have  in  some 
instances.  Romulus  found  his  mother  a  great 
convenience  in  this  case.  A  few  months  of  more 
congenial  society  had  made  him  heartily  tired  of 
Luella  anyhow ;  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  marry  even 
if  his  mother  had  not  interdicted  it. 

As  we  are  telling  a  true  story,  without  a  grain 
of  romance  in  it,  we  must  admit  that  Luella  didn't 


302  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

even  faint  when  receiving  this  blow  to  her  affec- 
tions; she  wept  copiously  and  told  Romulus  that 
she  could  never  get  over  it,  and  that  she  con- 
sidered his  mother  a  hard-hearted  old  woman  ! 
Romulus  shook  his  head  in  apparent  dejection,  and 
said  it  was  their  destiny,  it  couldn't  be  helped  ; 
they  must  be  the  slaves  of  circumstances.  Then 
he  said  how  he  would  appreciate  her  love  for  him, 
but  she  could  see  that  it  was  out  of  the  question 
for  them  to  enjoy  each  other's  society  any  more. 
Then  Luella,  who  was  not  lacking  in  pride,  told 
him  that  she  should  certainly  never  seek  his  com- 
pany again,  at  which  statement  Romulus  felt  in  his 
heart  a  secret  relief.  Then  they  parted  for  good, 
and  we  are  happy  to  say  that  at  the  end  of  another 
year  Luella  had  so  thoroughly  recovered  that  she 
married  an  estimable  young  man  who  was  worth  a 
dozen  like  Romulus,  and  "lived  happy  ever 
after." 

For  some  months  succeeding  this,  all  ran 
smoothly.  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  was  surprised  by  the 
good  nature  of  her  eldest  son.  Like  most  geni- 
uses— financial  or  otherwise — he  had  been  subject 
to  spells  of  irritability ;  all  this  appeared,  for  the 
time  at  least,  modified.  He  dwelt  with  elaboration 
on  his  schemes  for  the  land,  telling  his  mother  it 
would  not  be  long  before  she'd  be  riding  in  her 
own  carriage.  The  Fox  having  deluded  Romulus, 
he  in  turn  deluded  his  mother;  she  listened  with 
admiration.  It  is  so  easy  to  believe  what  we  want 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  3°  3 

to,  besides  her  faith  in  his  discernment;  his  apti- 
tude for  turning  everything  to  advantage,  was  very 
great. 

The  new  friend  made  the  year  following  his 
parting  with  Luella  very  pleasant.  She  talked,  she 
even  walked  with  him  quite  frequently ;  she  pre- 
sented him  with  gifts  commemorative  of  their  friend- 
ship ;  she  marked  the  date  of  their  first  conversation 
with  each  other  by  a  diamond  ring,  of  their  first 
walk  together  by  a  ruby  scarf-pin  ;  she  did  these 
things  in  a  way  which  conveyed  a  subtle  flattery,  a 
delicate,  melancholy  admiration  for  him,  which 
quite  thrilled  Romulus.  He  used  to  accept  these 
gifts  as  he  had  Luella's,  with  a  fancy  that  he  would 
some  time  reciprocate.  This  notion  of  liquidation 
in  a  dim,  uncertain  future  is  very  much  in  vogue 
with  some  people.  It  may  seem  a  matter  of  sur- 
prise that  Romulus  should  keep  his  "dear  mother" 
from  knowing  anything  at  all  of  his  amorous  pro- 
clivities. To  be  sure,  he  was  only  applying  to  his 
love  affairs  the  same  principle  which  regulated  his 
pecuniary  ventures ;  his  mother  had  educated  these 
principles  into  him  ;  yet,  strangely  enough,  he  could 
not  say  to  her  with  brutal  frankness  what  he  certain- 
ly said  to  himself  very  often,  "  This  woman  loves 
me;  she  is  a  married  woman,  consequently  I  couldn't 
marry  her  if  I  would  ;  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
us  from  loving  each  other,  if  we  maintain  a  decent 
amount  of  secresy.  If  there  is  any  right  or  wrong 
about  it,  that  is  her  lookout,  not  mine ;  no  man 


304  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

should  be  fool  enough  to  pass  the  blossom  on  his 
path  without  picking  it." 

It  may  be  seen  by  this  that  Romulus  was  per- 
fectly willing  to  love  and  be  loved,  yet  the  object 
of  his  affection  —  if  we  may  call  it  by  that  name  — 
maintained  a  certain  boundary  line  between  them 
which  he  found  impossible  to  cross.  During  the 
second  year  of  their  acquaintance  he  had  progressed 
far  enough  to  hold  her  hand  for  half  an  hour  at  a 
time,  as  he  looked  inexpressible  things  into  her 
eyes.  This,  of  course,  was  very  enchanting,  but 
then  it  was  illusive  and  dream-like  in  its  nature. 
He  was  inwardly  chafing,  yet  dared  not  give  too 
distinct  an  idea  of  what  was  passing  in  his  mind ; 
he  was  like  one  who  attempts  to  snare  some  little 
bird,  with  strained  eye,  with  hand  upon  the  bait 
with  which  he  hopes  to  draw  the  victim  on  —  yet 
afraid  to  move,%lmost  to  breathe,  in  case  some  sud- 
den fright  might  cause  his  prey  an  alarm,  when  it 
would  fly,  never  to  return. 

Things  remained  in  this  condition  for  another 
year.  Romulus  was  astonished  and  chagrined ;  he 
did  not  know  that  in  this  game  of  hearts  he  had 
an  opponent  worthy  his  utmost  skill.  With  the 
ready  vanity  of  youth,  he  had  taken  it  for  granted 
that  this  lady  would  never  have  singled  him  out  for 
her  friendship  or  society  unless  she  loved  him.  He 
did  not  realize  that  this  woman  of  the  world  was 
playing  her  little  game,  too ;  that  with  adroit  flat- 
teries she  was  luring  him  on  to  lay  his  nature  bare: 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  305 

that  she  derived  a  secret  amusement  from  picking 
up  these  specimens,  as  one  lifts  some  odd  insect 
gingerly  on  the  top  of  the  finger,  steadying  it, 
meantime  urging  with  pin  pricks  the  helpless  thing 
to  fresh  manifestations  of  its  actions  under  those 
circumstances. 

This  woman  had  for  a  long  time  been  engaged 
in  seeking  a  cure  for  a  wound.  She  had  been  suf- 
fering since  the  first  two  years  of  her  married  life 
with  a  complaint  which  is  alarmingly  prevalent  —  the 
heartache.  People  seek  strange  cures  for  this  dis- 
ease. Many  of  them  apply  the  poultice  of  religion, 
others  the  black  draught  of  reform  ;  very  many  the 
madness  of  dissipation.  None  of  these  harsh  rem- 
edies suited  this  lady,  so  she  drifted  aimlessly 
about,  and  the  ache  grew  harder.  It  so  happened 
that  she  caught  the  ache  in  this  way  —  she  loved 
her  husband  with  the  deepest,  strongest  love  that 
woman  can  experience.  You  will  say  that  was  all 
right ;  so  it  was,  but,  unluckily,  there  must  have 
been  a  mistake  somewhere,  for,  though  he  certainly 
loved  his  wife  at  first,  he  seemed,  after  awhile,  to 
weary  of  what  was  always  all  his  own,  and  looked 
too  longingly  after  forbidden  fruit.  To  this  his  wife 
closed  her  eyes  —  she  was  too  proud  a  woman  to 
let  him  or  any  one  else  see  her  sufferings  —  she 
never  reproached  him,  never  interfered  with  him  ; 
she  wore  her  gay  mask  with  thoroughly  deceptive 
grace,  only  removing  it  in  the  deep  loneliness  of 
the  night,  when  she  stood  face  to  face  with  her  soul 


306  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

in  the  darkness  and  uttered  her  wretched  wail.  If 
she  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  bear  a  little  child, 
she  would  have  satisfied  the  hunger  of  her  heart 
on  it.  Even  this  happiness  was  not  hers.  If  she 
had  been  forced  to  toil  for  a  subsistence,  she  would 
have  found  some  natural  outlet  for  her  restless  sor- 
row, but  not  even  this.  She  lived  sumptuously  in 
her  elegant  home,  she  trailed  about  in  silken  gar- 
ments over  her  velvet  carpets,  and  the  ladies  of  her 
"  set "  praised  and  envied  her.  The  men  called  her  a 
noble,  stately  woman  ;  the  only  one  she  loved  on 
earth  hurried  away  to  chase  his  newest  butterfly. 
Then  she  sought  amusement. 

There  is  a  frightful  bitterness  in  the  kind  of 
heartache  she  suffered  from,  which  makes  one  take 
pleasure  in  seeing  others  surfer  in  the  same  manner. 
She  began  to  amuse  herself  in  this  dangerous  way 
some  time  before  Romulus  met  her.  The  first 
time,  the  party  she  selected  was  about  her  own  age. 
His  vanity  precipitated  an  inglorious  defeat.  His 
masculine  mind  could  only  draw  one  inference 
from  the  fact  that  the  lady  showed  a  preference  for 
his  society!  He  had  the  temerity  to  hint  this  infer- 
ence. He  departed  very  hastily  from  the  blue  flame 
of  her  wrath,  and  wondered  —  stupid  fool  that  he 
was  —  what  the  world  was  coming  to. 

At  this  period  her  soul  grew  so  sick  that  it  clam- 
ored for  a  holiday.  She  sent  for  the  family  phy- 
sician ;  she  told  him  plainly  that  her  malady 
required  a  change  of  air,  for  instance,  a  trip  abroad 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  307 

—  he,  dear  old  soul,  took  his  large  fee  and  instantly 
prescribed  the  remedy  suggested.  Her  husband 
consented  willingly;  at  home  or  abroad,  it  mattered 
little  to  him,  so  that  she  didn't  bother  him.  Even 
this  was  not  much  of  a  distraction  —  heartache  is 
such  an  obstinate  disease. 

On  her  return  she  found  herself  improved  in 
health,  but  then  —  all  this  was  the  prologue  to  her 
acquaintance  with  Romulus.  What  first  attracted 
her  attention  to  him  was  his  youth.  That  other 
hateful  experiment  was  old  enough  to  be  really 
wicked  ;  perhaps  a  young  man  would  be  her  friend 
in  very  truth. 

This  fallacy  concerning  youth  is  indulged  in  by 
many;  when  we  see  pictures  of  angels  they  are 
always  young.  Did  we  ever  see  a  representation  of 
angelhood  which  was  middle-aged  or  old?  Yet 
how  much  innocence  do  we  really  find  in 
youth? 

During  the  second  year  of  her  friendship  with 
Romulus  this  lady  made  some  singular  discoveries 
as  to  that  gentleman's  mental  calibre.  There  was 
a  meanness  in  his  cunning  which  amazed  her. 
When  he  talked  with  conceited  verbosity  about  his 
mother  — revealing  himself  in  the  light  of  a  mar- 
tyred victim  to  his  deep  love  and  reverence  for  the 
author  of  his  being  —  she  drew  him  on  by  an  ap- 
proving silence  which  concealed  her  real  under- 
standing. This  "mother"  business  was  nothing 
new  to  her;  she  had  heard  so  many  youths  descant 


308  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

after  this  fashion,  she  had  not  the  implicit  faith  in 
his  statements  he  supposed. 

Remus  was  having  some  little  experiences  about 
this  time,  but  nobody  ever  thought  of  taking  much 
notice  of  anything  he  said  or  did  —  the  only  regu- 
larity in  his  conduct  being  his  punctuality  at  meal 
time.  He  had  a  masculine  appreciation  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  "feeding  up,"  which  made  his  mother 
sure  of  seeing  him  at  least  three  times  a  day.  His 
conduct  after  business  hours  —  being  after  six  in  the 
evening  —  might  be  called  erratic;  he  was  much 
given  to  nocturnal  rambles.  Some  three  hours  after 
Romulus  had  fallen  into  the  sleep  of  virtuous  re- 
pose,, the  careless  steps  of  Remus  could  be  heard 
entering  the  maternal  mansion.  In  early  boyhood 
his  mother  had  tried  remonstrance,  even  beatings, 
to  cure  him  of  these  irregularities,  but  in  vain. 
There  is  nothing  so  hard  to  argue  with  or  convince 
as  a  thoughtless  good  nature ;  dogged  obstinacy 
may  yield  under  determined  assault;  the  merry  good 
humor  which  receives  your  scoldings  with  a  smile 
or  kiss,  then  goes  its  way,  is  irresistible. 

Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  found  resistance  useless ;  then, 
woman  -  like,  she  made  the  best  of  it,  saying  to  Rom- 
ulus that  his  brother  would  soon  outgrow  all  these 
improper  likings,  at  which  Romulus  shook  his  wise 
head  gravely  and  answered  that  Remus  had  bad  tastes 
and  was  evidently  going  to  the  dogs. 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  it  is  expected 
that  after  a  young  man  turns  his  twentieth  year  he  is 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  309 

liable  to  fall  in  love  and  wish  to  marry  —  it  is  just 
as  natural  for  all  this  to  come  about  as  for  him  to 
eat,  drink  or  breathe.  Somehow  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe 
had  never  associated  this  idea  with  Remus;  she  had, 
as  we  have  noted,  felt  anxiety  concerning  Romulus. 
This  was  inconsistent,  for  Romulus,  being  a  pattern 
of  propriety,  she  should  have  felt  that  he  was  not 
likely  to  do  anything  so  unreasonable,  so  much 
against  his  interests  as  well  as  his  mother's,  as  to 
marry;  whereas  Remus  —  who  always  did  exactly 
what  he  felt  inclined  to  do,  "without  rhyme  or  rea- 
son"—  was,  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  the  one 
who  would  first  fall  into  this  serious  error;  and  of 
course  he  did,  desperately,  too,  for  it  was  never  his 
disposition  to  do  anything  half  way.  So  into  love 
he  fell,  head  over  heels,  a  pretty  girl  of  eighteen 
having  captured  him.  For  a  year  he  lived,  figur- 
atively speaking,  in  heaven.  An  unaccountable, 
ridiculous  happiness  marks  the  first  stages  of  the 
fever  called  love.  Remus  had  a  capacity  for  loving 
which  kept  pace  with  all  his  other  unrestricted 
capacities,  and  he  never  thought  of  stinting  himself. 
When  the  young  girl  had  promised  to  marry  him 
some  day,  and  love  him  for  ever,  he  went  about  with 
such  an  air  of  beatitude  upon  him  "that  he  who  runs 
might  read,"  but  they  didn't  read  or  care.  The  people 
who  look  continually  for  gold  can  seldom  see  any 
other  brightness.  That  Remus  was  so  occupied  by 
his  own  affairs  that  he  didn't  bother  them,  or  show 
a  disposition  to  pry  into  their  money -making 


3  JO  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

schemes,  was  a  consolation.  Meantime  Romulus 
dwelt  with  great  severity  upon  his  brother's  mani- 
fold shortcomings,  thus  seeking  to  strengthenhis  own 
influence,  yet  Remus  being  in  a  measure  indispen- 
sable, they  must  hold  him  to  the  business.  This  was 
more  imperative,  for  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  was  breaking 
down  in  health;  she  could  no  longer  participate 
actively  in  the  work  as  she  had  been  wont  to  do. 
The  strain  of  those  long  years  was  telling  on  her; 
then,  too,  old  age  was  coming  without  the  little 
comforts  and  luxuries  with  which  love  endeavors  to 
surround  it.  She  became  a  sufferer  from  that  too  strict 
economy  she  had  inculcated.  She  discharged  the 
household  duties  unassisted;  this  —  even  for  the 
small  family  of  three  —  was  often,  very  often  now, 
a  tax  upon  her  strength.  When  Romulus  found 
her  pale  and  exhausted  from  the  preparation  of  a 
simple  meal  he  would  cheer  her  up  with  promises 
of  a  future  without  work  or  care. 

One  can't  live  exclusively  on  promises ;  to  one 
fainting  from  weakness  by  the  wayside  it  is  small 
help  to  know  that  a  bountiful  repast  awaits  a  mile 
or  so  farther  on.  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  had  a  dim,  un- 
easy perception  of  this,  so  when  Romulus  insisted 
on  putting  the  profits  of  the  last  year's  business  into 
a  new  speculation,  "just  the  thing  to  double  itself 
if  they  waited  a  couple  of  years,"  she  resisted  vig- 
orously. She  reminded  him  that  in  her  estimation 
the  time  had  come  for  them  to  realize  on  these 
numerous  investments.  A  few  more  years  of  this 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  311 

pinching  and  straining  would  bring  her  to  death's 
door. 

Romulus  assured  her  she  was  all  right ;  she  only 
lacked  patience.  It  would  be  better  for  her  to  put 
things  in  his  name,  or  give  him  power  of  attorney 
to  act  for  her,  if  she  felt  the  strain  of  the  business 
too  much.  He  was  willing — he  remarked  with  a 
self-sacrificing  air — to  take  all  on  his  shoulders. 
He  was  young  and  strong,  and  for  her  sake  would 
bear  it.  His  mother  was  not  yet  broken  enough 
in  health  or  spirit  to  do  this  !  The  wily  guardian 
of  her  interests  had  to  practice  the  patience  he 
had  so  strongly  enjoined  upon  her. 

It  was  particularly  unfortunate  that  she  should 
prove  so  unexpectedly  obstinate  just  now  as  the 
purchase  of  the  forty  acres  had  cramped  him,  and 
some  ready  money  must  be  raised.  How  was  he  to 
do  this?  It  required  reflection,  and  he  hit  upon  a 
way  at  last. 

This  unlucky  day,  when  all  was  going  against 
him,  the  Fox  appeared.  Romulus  was  feeling  ex- 
cessively cross,  the  Fox  suggested  the  necessity  of 
improvements  upon  these  acres.  He  was  inter- 
ested in  them,  as  they  adjoined  his  land — it  would 
be  to  their  mutual  advantage  to  make  the  land 
more  attractive.  Romulus  asked  sarcastically  if  he 
wanted  it  set  out  in  parterres  with  a  beautiful  foun- 
tain in  the  centre?  The  Fox  remarked  gently  that 
his  young  friend  seemed  irritated ;  that  he — the 
Fox — being  a  practical  man,  only  desired  the  ex- 


312  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

penditure  of  a  hundred  or  so  in  sidewalks  and 
shade  trees.  At  this  Romulus  gave  full  rein  to  a 
temper  naturally  violent.  He  consigned  the  Fox, 
in  flaming  language,  to  a  very  warm  region!  The 
Fox  was  inwardly  delighted — this  was  what  he  had 
come  for — a  final  rupture.  Perceiving  the  humor 
of  his  dear  young  friend  he  kept  applying  the 
goad,  which  led  to  their  parting  with  mutual 
curses  and  openly  expressed  determination  to  have 
nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other. 

The  Fox  retired  from  the  field  laughing  to  him- 
self. He  knew  what  Romulus  didn't — that  in  a 
very  short  time  the  assessments  on  these  acres 
would  be  something  enormous.  The  Fox  chuckled 
with  rapture;  he-  was  all  right  —  having  plenty  of 
capital  to  swing  his  ventures — but  his  egotisti- 
cal young  friend — raising  money  by  mortgage  and 
forced  loans  and  paying  big  interest!  Oh,  it  was 
too  funny!  The  Fox  laughed  till  the  tears  ran 
down  his  face. 

A  week  later  Romulus  hastening  to  his  supper, 
after  a  delightful  tete-a-tete  with  his  lady  friend, 
found  his  mother  presiding  at  table  with  a  gloomy 
brow  and  distraught  manner.  Remus  full  of  talk 
and  gayety  saw  nothing.  He  rushed  off  in  his 
usual  heedless  way  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  finished. 
His  mother  looked  moodily  after  him.  "He  is  bad 
enough,"  she  exclaimed — "  but  you  are  worse  !" 

"  Mother,"  said  Romulus,  as  a  dark  flush  passed 
over  his  face,  "what  do  you  mean?" 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  313 

"  I  mean,"  she  answered,  "  that  I  know  all  about 
your  trying  to  raise  a  second  mortgage  on  that 
property  of  mine ;  you  didn't  tell  me,  but  an  old 
friend,  who  thought  I  ought  to  know,  did.  Look 
you,"  she  continued,  severely,  "you  may  call  it 
what  you  please,  but  most  folks  would  term  it  ras- 
cality! Never  try  such  a  thing  again." 

"  You  wouldn't  help  me  out  of  a  tight  place," 
said  Romulus;  "a  fellow  can't  figure  everything; 
unexpected  expenses  come  sometimes ;  one  can't 
drop  all  for  the  sake  of  a  few  extra  hundreds  in- 
volved. If  you  want  to  manage  matters  entirely 
by  yourself,  just  say  so!  If  you  won't  wait  for  the 
land  to  grow  into  value — why,  throw  it  up,  that's 
all!" 

Mrs.  Elinthorpe  was  alarmed ;  without  Romu- 
lus she  could  do  nothing ;  he  had  been  the  con- 
trolling power  so  long  that  she  would  not  be  able 
to  get  on  without  him,  she  must  condone  this — 
his  first  offense.  She  did  ;  but  this  experience  left 
her  much  older,  much  sadder. 

Some  weeks  after  came  that  surprise  from  which 
the  Fox  had  so  discreetly  retired.  Romulus  was 
assessed  for  sewers,  water  pipes,  grading,  etc.,  on 
his  piece  of  land.  That  this  would  come  about 
some  day  he  knew,  but  so  soon,  and  at  such  great 
expense,  he  had  not  figured  on  that. 

A  great  author  has  written  in  one  of  his  books, 
"  You  are  sure  to  succeed  ;  if  a  man's  foot  obstructs 
your  way — stamp  upon  it ;  do  you  think  he  won't 


3 14  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

remove  it?"  Romulus  would  succeed  exactly  in 
this  fashion  ;  he  would  stamp  upon  anything  which 
hindered  him,  just  as  he  had  stamped  out  the  little 
flame  of  Luella's  love  when  he  no  longer  required 
its  warmth.  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  recognized  at  last  the 
peculiar  mixture  of  shrewdness  and  meanness  she 
had  spent  so  many  years  in  modeling.  She  felt  a 
pang  for  which  there  was  no  balm  ;  she  grew  cyn- 
ical and  cross  as  her  perception  of  this  truth  in- 
creased, and  now  came  Remus  to  her  with  his  tale 
of  love.  Love!  she  hated  the  word!  She  told 
him  angrily,  almost  fiercely,  to  look  around  him, 
did  he  see  the  bare  walls,  the  uncarpeted  floors,  the 
poverty,  and  dare  think  of  a  wife.  Ah,  it  was  like 
him  to  be  so  unreasonable  as  to  want  to  marry! 
Was  this  the  return  for  her  years  of  toil,  that  as 
soon  as  he  reached  man's  estate  he  must  love  some 
woman  more  than  his  own  mother?  Let  him  go 
and  tell  this  girl — since  he  had  been  foolish  enough 
to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife — that  he  could  not  marry 
— that  he  had  no  way  of  supporting  her — that  he 
owed  a  duty  to  his  mother!  Then  Remus,  quite 
crushed,  quite  broken-hearted,  obeyed.  He  did 
not  postpone  the  fatal  declaration  of  his  woes ;  he 
went  to  his  beloved  at  once  with  the  whole  story. 
The  girl,  who  truly  loved  him,  looked  at  him  with 
her  beautiful  eyes  full  of  tears  and  said,  yes,  he 
could  go,  he  could  give  her  up  since  it  was  his 
mother's  will.  She  would  be  willing  to  share  pov- 
erty, anything,  with  him,  but  if  he  thought  it  right 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  315 

to  give  her  up,  he  must  do  so.  She  turned  away 
with  choking  sobs,  but  Remus,  fond,  foolish  fellow, 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  saying  he  would  live  and 
die  with  her,  he  wouldn't  give  her  up  for  ten  moth- 
ers! Then  they  both  vowed  to  wait  for  each  other 
if  it  was  for  ever.  So  ended  the  first  part  of 
Remus's  love  story. 

Romulus  was  getting  on  very  slowly  in  his  pri- 
vate love  venture.  The  lady  who  had  not  been 
much  given  to  obtruding  her  husband  into  their 
conversations,  found  occasion  to  mention  him 
quite  frequently  of  late.  If  a  number  of  weeks 
slipped  past  without  Romulus  seeing  her,  she  had 
been  obliged  to  remain  at  home  rather  closely,  her 
husband  being  of  a  jealous  temperament.  If 
Romulus,  grown  impatient,  proposed  a  drive  or 
walk,  she  would  have  to  put  it  off  till  some  other 
time  when  her  husband  might  be  out  of  town. 
Romulus  privately  gnashed  his  teeth  and  cursed 
the  husband.  Meantime  my  lady,  who  was  heartily 
sick  of  her  "amusement,"  would  have  given  it  up, 
only  that  she  wanted  to  play  the  little  game  out, 
and  demonstrate  the  meanness  of  her  ardent 
young  lover.  His  avaricious  propensities  being 
well  known  to  .her  —  she  decided  to  throw  a 
golden  bait,  then  suddenly  remove  it,  and  watch 
the  result.  To  this  end  she  talked  of  some  thous- 
ands she  had  in  bank,  asking,  with  a  delightful 
unconsciousness  of  manner,  if  he  could  recom- 
mend some  way  of  using  it.  She  carried  large 


3X6  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

sums  of  money  with  her  which  she  carelessly  dis- 
played to  him ;  she  supplemented  all  this  with 
some  handsome  gifts.  In  her  heart  she  rather 
hoped  that  he  would  steal  from  her, —  she  believed 
him  capable  of  it.  She  managed  all  this  with  a 
demeanor  which  would  have  fooled  men  older  and 
more  worldly  wise  than  Romulus. 

The  train  was  ready  laid;  the  next  meeting 
with  him  she  would  touch  off  the  fuse  and  explode 
the  mine ;  she  would  come  to  him  in  great  distress 
with  a  tale  of  financial  ruin  and  beggary  —  pre- 
tending to  throw  herself  on  his  generosity.  The 
result  she  was  assured  of, —  he  would  discard  her 
friendship  with  many  soft  excuses.  She  shook 
with  inward  merriment,  even  as  her  lip  curled  with 
scorn,  fancying  the  scene.  This  lady  dove,  with  the 
wisdom  of  the  serpent,  didn't  really  know  which 
she  despised  the  most,  Romulus  or  herself. 

It  was  the  night  preceding  the  last  grand 
experiment  of  her  love  game  with  this  modern 
financier.  An  unusual  restlessness  was  upon  her. 
She  walked  incessantly  about  her  dressing  room, 
her  slippered  feet  fell  noiseless  on  the  soft  velvet 
of  the  carpet.  The  windows  of  the  dressing  room, 
situated  in  the  third  story  of  the  house,  looked 
out  upon  the  street ;  she  pulled  aside  the  silken 
curtain  and  gazed,  bright  stars  gemmed  the  broad 
arch  of  the  sky,  the  lamps  flickered  in  the  fitful 
gusts  of  wind  which  blew  along  the  boulevard  ;  it 
was  silent  and  deserted  except  by  an  occasional 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  3 1  ^ 

carriage  rolling  swiftly  over  it.  Beyond  it,  the 
lake  tossed  its  white  crested  waves ;  why  was 
she  so  excited  and  restless?  she  could  not  sleep, 
read  or  write,  she  would  think  until  she  became 
drowsy  enough  for  bed. 

Years  after,  this  night  stood  silhouetted  against 
her  memory,  a  black  figure  of  fate  on  a  lonely 
expanse.  She  sat  beside  the  window,  bringing 
into  mental  review  the  years  of  her  acquaintance 
with  Romulus  ;  all  that  had  come  of  it  was  a  com- 
paratively innocent  love  making,  there  had  been  no 
guilt  in  their  intercourse,  but  had  he  really  loved 
her — had  he  been  all  that  she  at  first  supposed 
him  —  could  she  answer  for  the  result?  She  was 
glad  that  he  had  proved  a  scoundrel ;  her  husband's 
infidelities  could  not  be  urged  as  excuse  for  her. 
Then  her  mind  reverted  to  her  husband  —  who,  all 
the  time  she  was  making  an  excuse  of  him  to 
Romulus,  was  out  of  the  city  —  she  remembered 
the  happiness  of  their  early  married  life,  her  trust 
in  him,  her  hope  for  the  years  to  come.  Then  the 
blankness  —  the  pall  that  settled  over  her  when  she 
knew  the  truth.  She  could  distinctly  recall  how, 
in  those  weeks  of  her  first  overpowering  anguish, 
was  lovely  weather,  how  the  sun  blazed  at  her  with 
a  searching  light  that  seemed  to  mock  her,  how 
the  flowers  shook  gaudy  -colors  at  her.  How 
balmily  the  wind  was  blowing,  how  the  black 
death  in  her  soul  cried  out  against  the  garishness 
of  life.  She  shuddered,  remembering  all  this. 


3 1 8  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

Ah,  was  not  her  sorrow  dreadful  in  the  bearing, 
a  nobleness  compared  to  the  low  pursuit  with 
which  she  strove  to  heal  her  wound?  Her  tears 
burst  forth,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months  she 
was  drenched  by  the  rainstorm  of  her  emotions ; 
torn  by  sobs  and  convulsive  meanings  —  with  her 
jeweled  fingers  clenched  in  her  long,  dark  hair  — 
she  lay  upon  the  floor  as  the  wretched  hours  wore 
on. 

About  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  she  was 
roused  from  this  lethargy  of  despair  by  a  violent 
ringing  of  the  bell,  the  patter  of  servants'  feet 
along  the  hall,  excited  voices  ;  then  she  was  hastily 
summoned.  They  tried  to  break  it  to  her  gently 

—  her  husband  had  been  badly   injured   in  a  rail- 
road wreck,  it  might  be  unto  death  —  she  must  be 
composed  ;  yes,  she  could  go  to  him  ;  in  two  hours 
she  could  get  a  train.     A  mad  whirl  came  into  her 
brain,  if  he  should   die  before  she  could    see  or 
speak  to  him.     Oh,  fly,  hasten  the  preparations  for 
her  departure;  what  ailed  the  lagging  horses?  the 
slow  train?     Off  she  went,  with  Romulus  forgotten 
as    completely    as   though    he    had    never    lived. 
Thus  ended  the  second  love  passage  in  this  young 
man's  life,  for  he  saw  her  no  more. 

Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  never  renewed  that  first  active 
resistance  to  the  encroachments  of  her  son.  "  Hope 
deferred  "  had  made  her  heart  too  sick  for  anything 

—  even  when  connected  with  the  gold  she  loved  so 
well.     Romulus  grew  crosser,  too,   as  the  passing 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  3T9 

months  brought  in  their  train  accumulated  worries. 
The  sudden  and  complete  disappearance  of  his  last 
lady-love  amazed  and  chagrined  him  beyond  ex- 
pression. He  could  not  shake  off  a  fancy  that  at 
any  time  she  might  stand  before  him  with  her  hand- 
some presence,  her  slow,  strange  smile.  He  began 
to  think  he  had  really  loved  her  and  to  condole 
with  himself  accordingly.  He  had  little  time,  how- 
ever, to  fret  over  this  sudden  turn,  for  "ways  and 
means"  claimed  his  incessant  attention.  That 
piece  of  land  —  uneasy  venture  —  was  a  vampire 
which  drained  his  purse.  If  something  could  be 
done  to  make  it  more  accessible,  perhaps  he  could 
sell  to  advantage.  He  was  not  the  only  one  desir- 
ing this,  as  a  number  of  men  largely  interested  in 
real  estate  had  holdings  near  his  own.  He  talked 
with  them.  The  railroad  was  now  in  course  of 
construction.  If,  when  it  was  running,  the  railroad 
company  would  place  a  depot  near  this  land,  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  for  all  interested.  The  older 
men  suggested  that  Romulus  wait  upon  some  of 
the  railroad  magnates,  lay  the  case  before  them, 
and  by  his  representations  and  their  combined 
influence,  bring  about  "this  consummation  devoutly 
to  be  wished."  He  —  puffed  up  with  importance 
of  holding  consultation  with  these  older  and  mon- 
eyed men  —  willingly  consented. 

Whilst  Remus  plodded  away  at  the  business,  and 
his  mother  lived  on  hope  —  she  had  precious  little 
else  to  live  on— Romulus  haunted  the  railroad 


320  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

offices,  chased  after  and  humbly  waited  on  the  pres- 
ident of  the  road,  and  at  last,  by  dint  of  cringing, 
pushing  and  begging,  got  the  measure  through.  It 
took  months  to  do  this,  and  when  it  was  at  last  ac- 
complished Romulus  bragged  long  and  loudly. 
His  moneyed  friends,  to  whom  also  it  was  a  great 
boon,  complimented  themselves  on  having  gained 
it  without  any  outlay  of  time  and  trouble  on  their 
own  parts. 

The  little  god  of  love  is  represented  with  his 
eyes  bandaged.  There  is  a  proverb  extant  about 
the  blindness  of  this  passion.  However  this  may 
be  in  point  of  truth,  love  certainly  had  the  opposite 
effect  upon  Remus,  for  under  its  influence  he 
noticed  many  things  which  never  came  to  his 
observation  before.  He  wondered  why  Romulus, 
always  keenly  alive  to  business  interests,  should 
spend  so  much  of  his  time  away  from  the  store,  yet 
render  no  account,  so  far  as  he  knew,  as  to  the  why 
and  wherefore.  Why,  when  Romulus  was  there, 
strange  men,  having  no  connection  whatever  with 
the  business,  should  be  frequently  calling  to  see  and 
talk  with  him  on  subjects  Remus  heard  nothing 
about.  He  began  to  think  that  this  brother,  with 
whom  he  had  fought  in  boyhood  and  always  had 
dubbed  a  sneak,  was  trying  to  pull  the  wool  over 
his  eyes.  The  happiness  of  another  was  at  stake,  the 
girl  who  had  promised  to  wait  for  him,  would  do  so 
till  she  was  grayheaded  and  toothless  if  things  kept 
on  the  present  way,  for  the  business  appeared  to 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  32! 

yield  nothing  more  than  a  very  insufficient  living. 
Remus,  thinking  that  "all  is  fair  in  love  and  war," 
took  the  earliest  opportunity  to  solve  his  doubts. 
A  gentleman  coming  in  hurriedly  one  day  —  evi- 
dently not  knowing  Romulus  by  sight- — addressed 
the  brother.  "  Mr.  Ellinthorpe,  I  believe  ?  "  said 
the  stranger. 

Remus  nodded  gravely ;  he  had  a  perception 
that  it  was  a  mistake.  The  person  who  spoke  was 
a  tall  young  man,  with  a  face  prematurely  aged  by 
nights  of  poker  playing  and  other  genteel  vices  :  he 
wore  his  hair  parted  down  the  middle  and  arranged 
in  front  in  the  sweetest  beau-catchers  imaginable ; 
with  such  curling  embellishments  —  his  hat  care- 
fully placed  on  the  extreme  back  of  his  head  — 
these  attractions,  further  aided  by  a  blonde  mous- 
tache, elegantly  waxed,  he  was  quite  a  distracting 
figure. 

Remus  saw  all  this  with  a  glance  ;  the  stranger 
hooked  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  into  the 
second  top  buttonhole  of  Remus's  coat.  Holding 
him  thus,  he  poured  out  a  torrent  of  volubility 
which  Remus's  understanding  had  to  take  long 
strides  to  keep  up  with.  From  this  vortex  of  words 
—  interspersed  with  the  choice  oaths  affected  by 
young  men  of  his  class  —  Remus  at  last  gathered 
something  to  this  effect :  that  the  person  before 
him  could  bring  unexceptioual  references  as  to  his 
abilities ;  that  hearing  how  Mr.  Ellinthorpe  and 
some  others  wished  to  employ  a  pushing,  go-ahead, 


322  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

energetic  man  to  take  charge  of  a  real  estate  office 
on  their  subdivisions,  he  was  just  the  fellow  for 
them;  that  he  could  talk  purchasers  blind  —  Remus 
readily  believed  this  —  that  Mr.  Ellinthorpe's  large 
landed  interests  needed  a  painstaking,  competent, 
rushing  hustler !  These  words  ran,  raced,  fairly 
tumbled  over  each  other  in  the  stranger's  eagerness 
to  get  them  out ;  Remus  caught  his  breath  in  sur- 
prise ;  with  affected  carelessness  he  said  that  the 
trifling  real  estate  he  carried  could  hardly  need  so 
much  looking  to. 

"Why  your  very  last  purchase,"  exclaimed  the 
other,  "  that  piece  of  land  on  which  they  tell  me  a 
fine  railway  station  is  being  built,  that  alone  needs 
careful  supervision ;  a  good  man  right  there  can 
make  things  just  hump,  I  tell  you !" 

Remus  having  discovered  all  he  wanted  to,  dis- 
missed the  voluble  young  person  with  a  promise  to 
"think  about  it." 

He  went  to  his  mother  at  once,  coming  to  what 
he  wished  to  say  with  his  usual  straightforward 
manner.  That  he  was  very  much  angered  could 
not  be  denied. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  from  the  time  we  were 
little  boys  you  placed  more  confidence  and  love  in 
Romulus  than  in  me ;  being  some  years  younger 
than  he  I  uttered  no  protest  against  it.  Though 
I've  been  a  harum-scarum,  heedless  young  fellow, 
I  have  worked  with  and  for  you  ever  since  I  had 
the  strength  to  work.  Then,  when  I  grew  to  man- 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  323 

hood,  when  I  came  to  you  and  told  you  of  my  be- 
trothal to  that  young  girl,  when  I  begged  your 
sympathy  and  encouragement,  you  urged  me  on 
the  score  of  your  poverty — my  duty  to  you — to 
break  my  word  to  her.  The  happiness  of  two  lives 
must  be  set  aside  that  you  and  Romulus  should  go 
on  accumulating  land  and  money.  You  told  me," 
he  continued,  bitterly,  "to  look  around  me  at  the 
poverty  and  discomfort,  but  you  didn't  tell  me  of 
your  acres,  your  hoarded  thousands,  this  piece  of 
land  which  I  heard  of  to-day.  It  is  wrong — all 
wrong!" 

Remus  ceased  talking  for  a  moment,  quite 
breathless  from  his  angry  agitation.  His  mother 
began  to  weep.  "  It  is  quite  true,"  she  said,  through 
her  tears,  "  you  seemed  such  a  spendthrift,  as  you 
grew  up,  that  I  couldn't  trust  you.  But  we  are  not 
rich,  Remus ;  far  from  it.  Every  cent,  and  bor- 
rowed money  besides,  is  in  these  investments.  We 
are  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  if  I  wished  ever  so 
much  to  help  you  to  marry  I  couldn't." 

"  Mother,"  he  answered,  with  an  impatient  wave 
of  his  hand,  "  we  will  put  the  question  of  marriage 
aside.  I  will  only  say  this  about  it — that  I  didn't 
break  my  troth  with  that  girl,  that  I'm  glad  I  had 
manhood  enough  to  keep  my  word  to  her.  We 
are  as  much  engaged  to  each  other  now  as  ever. 
The  point  I  would  come  to  is  this — what  are  you 
doing  this  for?  Why  do  you  seek  to  accumulate 
at  such  dreadful  sacrifices?  You  are  growing  old 


324  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

and  weak,  and  if  you  had  taken  reasonable  comfort 
and  pleasure  in  life  as  you  went  along  you  would 
now  be  stronger  and  happier.  Romulus  is  to 
blame  for  this  with  his  sneaking  plans,  all  for  him- 
self and  what  he  calls  his  ambition!" 

At  this  unlucky  juncture  Romulus  appeared  up- 
on the  scene.  A  fierce  storm  of  words  ensued,  in 
which  Remus  told  his  brother,  in  very  forcible 
language,  exactly  what  he  thought  of  him.  The 
presence  of  the  mother,  instead  of  restraining,  in- 
flamed these  combatants, — for  Remus  felt,  with 
justice,  that  his  mother  had  been  the  greatest  suf- 
ferer. 

"  Go,"  he  said  passionately,  to  his  brother,  "  take 
your  way  and  I'll  take  mine,  since  you'd  drain  the 
very  life  blood  from  my  mother  with  your  folly  ; 
I'll  not  stand  by  to  see  it.  You've  got  things  in 
such  pretty  shape  with  your  plans,  your  invest- 
ments! A  little  decency,  as  one  goes  along,  is 
worth  all  your  prospective  riches!  Mark  my  words, 
when  at  last — if  ever  it  comes  to  that — you  are 
worth  all  the  money  you  want,  you  will  have  noth- 
ing else,  you  will  stand  alone  upon  your  pinnacle 
of  gold  with  not  a  pleasure  left  you,  except  what 
gold  can  buy  ;  then  you'll  be  surprised  to  find  how 
many  things  there  are  that  money  can't  buy!" 

He  paused  for  an  instant,  as  Romulus  hurled 
some  highly  colored  imprecations  at  him,  then 
continued,  "  If  I  could  do  any  good  to  you,  moth- 
er, by  remaining  with  this  hell-hound  here," — a 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  325 

scornful  look  at  Romulus  marked  the  sentence — 
"  I'd  stay,  but  it  would  be  only  working  for  him  to 
accomplish  what  is  really  meant  for  himself!  Let 
him  talk  as  he  will  to  you  about  his  love  for  you, 
he  takes  a  queer  way  of  showing  it.  You  are  the 
chisel  with  which  he  seeks  to  open  his  golden  door, 
that's  all!" 

Remus  rushed  out,  with  a  vicious  slam  of  the 
door  to  emphasize  his  feelings. 

"  He  is  a  fool!"  snarled  Romulus.  "  He'll  never 
have  anything  or  amount  to  anything  as  long  as 
he  lives.  Of  course,  to  cap  all,  he'll  up  and  leave 
us  now  just  as  we  need  him  the  most.  I  hoped  we 
could  hold  on  to  him  a  little  longer  ;  hired  men 
won't  look  after  things  as  well  as  he  does,  and  I'm 
obliged  to  be  away  so  much  of  the  time." 

This  speech  jarred  upon  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe.  Its 
cold-blooded  tone  of  calculation  coming  just  after 
Remus's  fiery  denunciations  was  like  a  cold  trickle 
of  ice  water. 

"  He  may  be  'in  the  right,"  she  murmured. 
"  After  years  of  toil  and  struggling,  where  do  we 
stand?  I  am  old  and  tired.  I  have  trusted  all  to 
you,  yet  nothing  is  realized.  I  long  to  fold  my 
hands  and  rest." 

Romulus  talked  to  her  of  the  future,  the  certain- 
ty now  that  they  would  soon  have  plenty.  She 
must  not  fret  over  the  violence  of  Remus ;  he  had 
always  been  headstrong  and  unreliable ;  if  he  was 
determined  to  go,  let  him  go!  He — Romulus — 


326  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

would  keep  his  hand  upon  the  wheel  and  steer  her 
in  safety  through  her  troubles. 

He  left  her  only  half  convinced ;  she  felt  that 
Remus  was  right  in  the  main  ;  she  could  not  re- 
trace those  steps  of  a  lifetime ;  she  could  see  plainly 
now  the  blunders  by  the  wayside.  But  Romulus 
held  all.  His  wheedling  had  overcome  her  doubts 
over  and  over  again.  He  had  managed  to  get  so 
much  of  her  property  into  his  name  that  he  held 
her  fast.  Henceforth  her  fortune  must  be  cast  with 
his,  and  Remus  left  to  work  out  the  enigma  of  life 
by  himself.  Ah!  that  they  could  be  little  boys 
once  more,  she  would  do  so  differently.  She  saw 
that  what  Remus  had  called  the  "  decencies "  of 
living  should  not  be  despised, — the  church,  the 
social  intercourse,  the  nice  home,  the  becoming 
attire, — none  of  these  should  yield  to  mere  money 
making.  Thus  thinking,  and  weakly  weeping,  she 
picked  up  the  burden,  grown  much  heavier  now, 
and  trudged  her  weary  way. 

Remus  proved  true  to  his  word,  he  instantly 
looked  about  him  for  a  position,  being  sternly 
determined  he  would  eat  no  more  of  that  bitter 
home  bread  leavened  with  deceit.  With  the  "  fool 
luck"  which  helped  him  in  his  youthful  games,  as 
well  as  the  affections  of  his  comrades,  he  soon 
found  employment  where,  though  the  wages  were 
low  to  start  on,  he  was  promised  higher  as  soon  as 
he  demonstrated  that  he  would  work  well  and  faith- 
fully. His  labor  was  lightened  by  the  thought  of 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  32.7 

the  reward.  He  talked  it  all  over  with  his  beloved, 
and  she  assured  him  that  with  him  she  was  content 
to  live  on  the  humblest  fare.  After  a  few  months 
he  would  have  saved  enough  from  his  modest 
salary  to  furnish  a  few  rooms  with  housekeeping 
necessities,  then  they  would  get  married.  He 
procured  a  cheap  temporary  lodging  near  his  work, 
but  did  not  entirely  neglect  his  mother  under  the 
pressure  of  these  new  cares.  He  went  to  see  her 
two  or  three  times  every  week.  Having  expended 
his  wrath  on  Romulus,  he  soon  forgave  her  part  in 
the  unpleasantness.  He  felt  anxious,  too,  as  to  her 
health,  for  he  could  not  help  noting  her  increasing 
feebleness.  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  mentioned  to  Rom- 
ulus the  fact  of  Remus's  calls,  then  Romulus 
cursed  his  brother  so  fervently  that  she  took  pains 
never  to  allude  to  Remus  again. 

The  station  upon  his  piece  of  land  being  in 
process  of  construction  rendered  Romulus  com- 
paratively happy.  He  never  wearied  of  talking 
over  the  hopefulness  of  the  situation  with  his  real 
estate  friends.  They  all  said  this  was  the  time  to 
push  things ;  it  would  be  better  to  build  a  little 
wooden  office  out  there  and  put  a  smart  agent  in 
it,  and  the  expense  could  be  shared  by  all.  They 
employed  the  identical  young  man  who  had 
buttonholed  Remus  by  mistake.  This  gentleman, 
arrayed  in  a  linen  duster  with  a  pen  behind  his 
ear,  made  an  interesting  picture  as  he  sat  with  the 
door  wide  open  on  the  warm  summer  days,  in  the 


328  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

little  ten-by-twelve  house ;  with  his  chair  tilted 
backward,  his  feet  upon  the  desk,  he  chewed  upon 
a  cigar  and  contemplated  the  monotonous  pros- 
pect for  many  hours  at  a  time  without  interruption. 
The  only  periods  when  he  displayed  any  activity 
being  those  rare  ones  when  his  employers — or 
rarer  still,  some  customers — came  upon  him  ;  then 
his  industry  was  lovely  to  behold.  His  eyes  bulg- 
ing out  with  exertion,  his  hat  off,  his  coat  sleeves 
turned  up,  he  could  be  seen  writing  away  for  dear 
life,  scarce  hearing  the  approaching  footsteps,  so 
absorbed  was  he. 

This  delectable  youth  spent  a  very  quiet  sum- 
mer, his  only  amusements  being  the  killing  of 
stray  blue -bottle  flies  in  his  window,  and  insulting 
women  who  had  the  misfortune  to  pass  his  place 
unattended.  At  this  latter  he  was  quite  an  expert, 
being  a  graduate  of  a  down  -  town  office.  He  used 
to  tell  the  fellows  of  his  club,  when  they  met  even- 
ings for  the  customary  poker  playing,  that  he 
really  could'nt  stand  such  a  cursed  existence  much 
longer.  With  nothing  to  look  at  all  day  except 
prairie  grass  and  those  confounded  white  real 
estate  signs,  just  like  overgrown  tombstones,  he 
felt  sure  that  the  blasted  monotony  would  drive 
him  to  suicide.  Next  pay-day  coming  round  he 
would  think  better  of  it  however,  and  conclude  to 
go  on  a  while  longer,  which  he  did  until  the  fine 
weather  coming  to  an  end  without  any  perceptible 
advantage  accruing  from  the  little  house  and  ten- 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  329 

ant  thereof,  his  employers  politely  dismissed  him. 
Now  followed  the  long,  slow  winter,  every  month 
of  which  was  marked  to  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  by  an 
increasing  weariness.  Romulus  told  her  that  next 
summer  with  the  road  running  through  their  land, 
and  station  completed,  would  cause  a  delightful 
change  in  their  surroundings.  She  smiled  feebly, 
making  no  reply.  Remus  and  the  young  wife- — 
they  were  married  now — paid  the  mother  some 
visits,  generally  contriving  to  get  there  when 
Romulus  was  absent.  They  cheered  her  with  their 
happiness,  their  simple  hopes  and  joys.  They  had 
furnished  the  three  rooms  which  constituted  their 
home.  When  the  spring  days  came  again  Remus 
coaxed  his  mother  into  coming  to  the  little  nest 
and  sharing  a  simple  meal  with  them.  They 
treated  her  with  every  deference  and  kindness ; 
the  truth  was,  their  hearts  ached  for  her. 

Romulus  was  showing  the  effect  of  the  mental 
strain  upon  him.  His  brown  locks  were  thickly 
seamed  by  gray,  two  long  wrinkles  had  formed 
across  his  forehead  ;  there  were  crowsfeet  around 
his  eyes,  a  slight  stoop  in  his  shoulders,  too, — his 
eyes  retained  their  eager  piercing  light,  but  it  was 
no  longer  that  of  hope. 

It  was  October  now;  the  station  upon  his  land, 
for  which  he  had  worked  so  hard  and  from  which 
he  had  hoped  so  much,  had  been  standing  for  a 
year.  Frequently  upon  a  Sunday  of  these  late 
autumn  days  he  would  walk  out  to  it — it  was  a  very 


33°  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

long  walk — and  sadly  contemplate  the  ground. 
The  dead  weeds  and  grasses  crunched  mournfully 
beneath  his  feet.  Far  away  to  the  south  stretched 
the  prairie  to  meet  the  sky ;  all  that  broke  the 
monotony  of  the  view  was  the  railroad  raised 
about  six  feet  above  the  surrounding  level,  and  the 
station — a  melancholy  travesty  upon  his  plans  and 
schemes.  It  was  a  neat  building,  quite  tasty  in 
fact,  upon  one  of  the  side  doors  of  it  was 
inscribed,  "  Ladies'  Waiting  Room."  Alas  !  No 
ladies  ever  waited  there.  The  trains  went  scurry- 
ing past  it  at  frequent  intervals,  and  the  passengers 
aboard  cracked  jokes  about  the  little  station  stand- 
ing in  its  loneliness,  with  the  unbuilt  acres  all 
around  it.  The  desolate  year  that  it  had  spent 
there  had  aged  it  more  than  a  couple  of  years  of 
use,  for  every  pane  of  glass  in  it  had  been  smashed 
to  atoms — no  boy  passing  it  could  resist  throwing 
a  stone. 

Romulus  thought  bitterly,  as  he  looked  upon 
this  devastation,  that  it  was  like  ancient  times, 
when  each  wayfarer  along  the  road  would  throw 
another  stone  upon  the  heap  already  started  to 
the  memory  of  some  dead  friend.  Surely  this 
was  his  heap — the  monument  to  broken  aspira- 
tions. Upon  its  front  the  name  of  the  station — 
all  black  and  white — stood  out  pretentiously. 
How  delighted  he  had  been  when  this  building 
was  in  process  of  construction ;  how  sure  he  had 
been  that  a  few  more  months  would  see  a  prosper- 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  331 

ous  town  growing  up  about  it.  Then  he  looked 
even  more  dolefully  upon  the  broad  graded  street, 
with  the  great  sewer  running  through  it,  which 
bounded  his  land  on  one  side.  He  shuddered, 
remembering  the  mortgage  he  had  raised  to  meet 
the  expenses  of  that  sewer  and  grading. 

He  would  walk  on  half  a  block  beyond  the  sta- 
tion on  this  expensive  street,  and  look  at  where  the 
big  sewer  emptied  itself  into  a  stream — which 
stream  was  an  offshoot  of  the  main  river  of  the 
city.  This  offshoot  had  wandered  some  distance 
from  the  parent  stream  and  lost  itself  upon  the 
prairie.  As  he  contemplated  this,  an  awful  fear 
would  beset  him.  Some  day,  perhaps  not  so  far 
off,  the  city  would  build  a  bridge  across  this 
stream  and  mayhap  insist  upon  the  property 
owners  helping  to  pay  for  it.  He  felt  that  this 
would  be  the  "last  straw." 

There  was  a  fascination  to  him  in  looking  at 
the  land ;  he  had  sacrificed  so  much  to  it — staked 
and  lost  love,  honor,  every  pleasure  of  life  upon  it 
— that  covered,  though  it  was,  all  over  by  assess- 
ments and  mortgages,  it  seemed  really  all  that  he 
had  left.  He  would  walk  around  and  on  it  for  an 
hour  or  two,  noting  where  the  rough  trenches  had 
been  ploughed  through  it — the  indicating  lines  of 
where  the  streets  would  some  day  be — the  big  black 
and  white  signs  that  the  real  estate  men  had  stand- 
ing thickly  on  it.  So  far  as  selling  the  land  was 


33 2  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

concerned,  these  signs  had  heretofore  seemed  to 
work  upon  the  scarecrow  principle. 

Sometimes  when  he  took  these  excursions,  the 
sun  would  shine  brightly,  the  air  blow  softly,  kind 
nature  would  smile  on  him  to  soothe  his  forlorn- 
ness,  then  recreant  hope  returned  again.  But  the 
days  were  not  always  thus ;  at  other  times  the  gray 
sky  frowned  upon  him,  the  heavy  clouds  hung 
lowering  on  the  horizon,  the  biting  wind  whistled 
angrily  around  him,  the  lonely  prospect  unrolled 
appallingly  before  him,  and  sadness  steeped  his 
very  soul.  He  would  turn  his  anxious  glance  to 
where  the  clouds  of  smoke  at  some  distance  to  the 
north,  west  and  east  of  him,  denoted  the  city  with 
its  outlying  suburbs.  Would  these  buildings  never 
stretch  to  him?  Must  he  wait  for  long  years  yet  to 
come?  Then  the  salt  tears  of  disappointment 
would  stream  down  his  cheeks  as  he  dejectedly  re- 
traced his  steps. 

It  was  midwinter  again.  The  snow  lay  thick 
upon  the  ground,  the  frost  snapped  viciously. 
Poverty  hurried  on  all  the  extra  garments  she  could 
procure,  even  if  patched  or  ragged;  want  walked 
blue-lipped  and  shivering  along  the  city  streets. 
The  brothers  had  exchanged  no  words  since  the 
memorable  day  when  Remus  made  his  discovery. 
Now,  under  the  pressure  of  a  mutual  grief,  they  met 
and  spoke  once  more,  for  Mrs.  Ellinthorpe  was 
dying.  Remus  saw  it  long  before  Romulus  gave 
it  any  serious  thought. 


A  PIECE  OF  LAND.  333 

Remus  and  the  young  wife  had  quietly  brought 
to  the  old  woman  the  only  real  joys  and  comforts 
she  had  ever  known.  An  atmosphere  of  generous 
love  surrounded  their  every  action  to  her.  In  her 
long  weeks  of  helplessness  they  waited  on  her  with 
unceasing  devotion.  What  thoughts  passed 
through  the  tired  brain,  they  knew  not ;  the  pale 
blue  eyes  were  full  of  changing  expressions,  but  she 
said  little. 

One  stormy  winter  evening,  just  before  the  time 
when  Remus  and  his  wife  generally  came  over  to 
keep  the  night  watch  with  the  mother,  Romulus, 
who  sat  beside  her  engaged  in  reading  some  real 
estate  journals,  saw  her  eyes  sparkle  with  sudden 
lustre,  she  smiled,  too,  very  happily  and  sweetly. 

"Ah,  mother,"  cried  Romulus,  delightedly, 
"you  are  better  now,  you  will  get  well!  Here 
have  I  been  reading  most  encouraging  things  in 
real  estate  ;  you'll  ride  in  your  own  carriage  yet 
upon  our  land." 

A  gray  shade  passed  over  her  face,  the  light 
was  fading  in  her  eyes,  she  turned  them  upon  him 
with  a  look  in  which  years  of  despondency  seemed 
blended,  gave  a  little  sigh,  and  expired. 

Ten  years  have  passed  since  that  winter  after- 
noon. Success  lingered  so  long  upon  the  way  that 
the  flowers  all  fell  from  her  garland,  and  by  the 
time  she  reached  Romulus  she  was  nothing  but 
a  middle-aged  matron  with  a  strong  commercial 
flavor  about  her. 


334  A  PIECE  OF  LAND. 

He  realized  the  truth  of  what  Remus  had  fore- 
told. One  can't  have  everything — as  we  grasp 
in  one  direction  something  else  slips  by. 

Remus  has  worked  very  hard,  but  he  holds  un- 
purchased  blessings.  As  he  returns  from  daily 
toil  two  fine  boys  rush  out  to  greet  and  call 
him  father,  the  face  of  his  early  love  smiles  benign- 
ly at  him,  his  soul  is  anchored  for  all  time  in  the 
haven  of  content. 

Romulus  looks  even  more  sadly  now  upon  the 
factories  and  dwellings  which  cover  his  acres  than 
he  did  in  those  years  when  they  were  a  weed- 
grown  desolation,  for  he  knows  of  a  surety  that 
he  gave  up  the  only  things  in  life  worth  having, 
and  that  there  are  temples  he  cannot  unlock  with 
his  golden  key. 


POEMS. 


GRANDMA. 

Take  off  your  wraps,  dear  Fannie, 

'Tis  good,  and  kind  I  own  — 
You  should  come  and  visit  Granny 

When  you  knew  she's  all  alone  ; 
Not  that  I'm  ever  alone,  dear, 

For  thoughts  companions  be, 
Who  kindly  traverse  each  bygone  year 

Of  my  three-score  years  and  three. 
Still  you  must  know  I  feel  it  sweet 

When  a  gay  young  girl  like  you 
Will  visit  Grandma's  dull  retreat 

And  bring  some  sunshine  through. 
So,  give  us  the  news,  my  birdling  ! 

How  goes  the  world  today  ? 
What  are  the  latest  songs  they  sing  ? 

What  are  the  things  they  say  ? 

Nothing  but  talk  of  the  Great  "  World's 

Fair  "  - 

Is  this  you  tell  me  true  ? 
Reports  and  rumors  everywhere 

Of  all  they're  going  to  do ; 
Of  how  Aladdin's  wonder  place 

By  this  but  a  midget  seems  ; 
This  big  "  white  city  "  of  glorious  grace, 
337 


338  GRANDMA. 

This  solid  "  dream  of  dreams  ;  " 
Well,  well,  but  yet,  tho'  it  may  be  true, 

/  remember  a  Fair  long  gone 
They  gave  to  our  noble  boys  in  blue  ; 

'Twas  our  first,  our  grandest  one. 
Grand  to  those  tired  men  who  came 

Alive  from  those  fighting  years, 
Grand  thro'  our  dead  in  their  dear-earned 
fame, 

Grand  through  our  women's  tears. 

You  talk  of  how  nations  all  shall  be 

In  this  city  of  pride  elate, 
Waving  their  banners  bright  and  free 

From  every  shore  and  state. 
We  had  banners  upon  our  walls 

Torn  and  battered  by  shot  and  shell ; 
Even  now  the  bitter  tear  drop  falls, 

I  remember  it  all  so  well ! 
And  how,  as  I  looked  at  my  boys  returned 

Safely  again  that  day, 
I  thought  of  the  one  so  vainly  mourned 

Who  dead  at  Shiloh  lay. 
Your  uncle,  dear  —  nay,  do  not  weep, 

He  was  so  strong  and  brave  — 
'Twas  hard  to  believe  him  sound  asleep 

In  the  silence  of  the  grave  ; 
His  eyes  were  blue  as  your  own,  my  dear, 

His  voice  !  how  glad  and  free, 


GRANDMA.  339 

More  plainly  yet  from  year  to  year 
Its  tones  come  back  to  me. 

That  War !  it  is  History  now,  you  say. 

Is  it,  then,  so  long  ago  ? 
Why,  to  me  it  is  just  like  yesterday. 

But,  then  —  all's  changed  I  know. 

But  tell  me  all  you  saw  and  heard 

On  your  Dedication  Day  ! 
Ah  !  your  mounted  soldiers  with  spur  and 
sword 

Must  have  shown  in  fine  array  ! 
Five  thousand  voices  in  your  hymn  ! 

And  your  guests  from  every  land  ! 
Here,  wipe  my  glasses,  dear  —  they're  dim. 

There's  a  shaking  in  my  hand. 
It  must  have  been  fine  with  fireworks  too, 

Rockets  both  big  and  small. 
The  flag  of  the  Union,  red,  white  and  blue, 

I'd  have  liked  that  best  of  all  ! 

But  fireworks  !  Ah  !  my  mem'ry  goes 

To  a  bright  October  day, 
Before  you  were  born,  my  budding  rose. 

'Twas  a  sight,  I've  heard  men  say, 
That  its  like  was  never  seen  before, 

For  a  city,  skyward  flaming, 
Lighted  the  lake  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  red  of  the  sunset  shaming. 


34°  GRANDMA. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  dreadful  night 

When  the  streets  —  a  sea  of  fire  — 
Raised  their  billows  of  cruel  light 

Hissing  and  swirling  higher  and  higher  ! 
When  we  stood  in  the  water,  cold,  waist  deep, 

And  saw  our  homes  turn  dust, 
And  the  flames  still  northward  creep  and 
and  creep 

In  that  terrible  holocaust ! 

Our  darling  Lucy,  from  that  time, 

Drooped  and  withered,  a  faded  flower, 
Killed  ere  she  reached  her  woman's  prime 

By  the  horrors  of  the  hour  ! 
She  was  our  dearest,  sweetest,  best  — 

Your  mother's  sister,  dear  — 
Brighter  and  truer  than  all  the  rest. 

But  there  —  I  do  declare  — 
You're  crying  again  !  Ah!  dry  your  eyes. 

You're  spoiling  their  pretty  blue  ! 
Now  teach  your  grandma  to  be  wise, 

And  not  to  sadden  you ; 
Enjoy  to  the  full  your  great    "World's 
Fair," 

Let  no  troubled  thoughts  intrude 
Of  your  Granny  in  her  old  arm-chair, 

With  her  "  peopled  solitude  ;  " 
For  you  see  how  'tis,  my  bonny  one  : 

Those  who  have  gone  before  — 


GRANDMA.  341 

With    whom    the    work    of    my   life   was 

done- 
Are  calling  me  o'er  and  o'er, 

Calling  me  ever  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
Through  summer,  or  winter  hours. 

Their  touch  is  soft  on  my  spirit  laid, 
Like  dew  on  the  waiting  flowers. 

I  scarce  can  think  of  the  world  that's  near, 
Though  the  present  is  best,  'tis  said, 

For  an  old  woman's  thoughts,  I  sadly  fear, 
Are  less  with  the  living  than  dead. 


THE  FROST  UPON  THE  PANE. 

He  softly  looked  at  her,  and  said, 

"  I'll  kiss  you  dear,  again, 
And  the  world  outside  shall  never  know, 

For  there's  frost  on  the  window  pane." 

The  careless  footsteps  hurrying  by 

Struck  loud  the  freezing  air, 
The  sound  of  merry  laugh  and  voice, 

Resounded  keen  and  clear, 

But  fastened  close  from  all  beyond 

By  Winter's  snowy  chain, 
They  kissed  the  tender  kiss  of  love, 

For  the  frost  was  on  the  pane! 

The  snows  of  Winters  twain  since  then 
Their  cold  white  hands  have  spread  ; 

Long  Falls  of  storm  and  Springs  of  rain, 
Have  passed  her  heedless  head ; 

And  now  as  Winter  days  draw  close 

Their  heavy  clouds  again, 
She  sadly  sees  the  tracery  made 

By  the  frost  upon  the  pane. 
342 


THE  FROST  UPOJV  THE  PANE.  343 

She  backward  turns  the  page  of  life 

To  one  remembered  day, 
When  sunshine  glistened  in  her  heart 

Though  clouds  hung  ashen  gray ; 

When  hope,  all  earnest-eye'd,  looked  out 

Upon  the  years  to  come ; 
When  restlessness,  despair  and  doubt, 

Seemed  hidden,  chained  or  dumb. 

And  on  that  page,  so  worn  and  old, 

So  blurred  by  useless  tears, 
All  interlined,  and  undertraced 

By  penciled  thoughts  of  years, 

She  writes  the  solemn  words  "No  more," 

Then  sighing,  turns  again 
Her  saddened  eyes  to  where  the  frost 

Lies  white  upon  the  pane. 


COMING  HOME. 

I  took  the  book  within  my  hand 

And  thought  to  read  it  some, 
But  not  a  word  could  understand 

For  he  is  "coming  home." 
And  every  distant  housetop  made 

Those  little  words  to  me, 
They  marked  the  afternoon's  long  shade, 

They  framed  each  withered  tree ; 
The  laden  wagons  in  the  street 

Just  rumbled  out  that  tune, 
And  with  the  tread  of  passing  feet 

Sang,  "he  is  coming  soon." 
Then  when  the  dark  of  evening  came 

And  every  lighted  lamp 
Shone  with  its  flickering  yellow  flame 

A  fire-fly  in  the  damp; 
When  Heaven,  its  patient  stars  hung  out 

The  brightest  lamps  of  all, 
Love  brushed  away  the  webs  of  doubt, 

And  Hope  "'held  carnival!" 

There  was  no  need  to  count  delay 

Of  joys  that  went  before, 
When  certainty  in  bright  array 
344 


RETURNED.  345 


Stood  smiling  at  the  door ; 
And  with  a  sunny  look  that  said, 

"I  stay,  no  more  to  roam," 
Bade  all  my  heart  be  comforted, 

For  he  is  "coming  home." 


RETURNED. 

A  little  parcel,  barely  spanned 
Within  the  compass  of  my  hand, 

Ah  me!  how  small  a  thing  to  hold 
A  wealth  of  hopes  and  dreams  untold. 

So  take  this  back,  each  garnered  thought, 
Each  relic  careful  love  had  sought 

To  deck  the  lighted  niche,  where  stood 
The  idol  of  its  tenderest  mood! 

Would  I  could  give  you  back  with  these 

The  mem'ry  of  your  perjuries, 
And  from  my  wearied  brain  efface 

Of  that  past  time  remotest  trace. 

It  cannot  be,  for  memory  still 
Will  triumph  o'er  impotent  will, 

And  cruel  fires  of  love,  now  spent 

Leave  blackened  marks  the  way  they  went. 


FOR  ONE  DAY. 

When  the  spring  time  comes,  beloved, 

When  the  bare-branched  trees  once  more 
Feel  the  thrill  of  life  awakening 

Through  them  as  it  did  of  yore, 
When  the  little  violet,  trembling 

To  the  sun's  responsive  ray, 
Opens  wide  its  eyes  with  pleasure, 

We  shall  meet  that  happy  day. 
Only  one,  and  yet  what  rapture 

May  those  halcyon  hours  impart, 
When  the  warmth  of  joy  shall  ripen 

Sweets  transferred  from  heart  to  heart ; 
When  we'll  hear  the  bird's  shrill  whistle 

For  his  mate,  still  far  away, 
And  we'll  smile,  remembering  only 

We  are  children  for  one  day. 
We  shall  see  the  white  clouds  floating 

In  a  sky  serenely  blue, 
And  we'll  say  the  world  so  large,  dear, 

Holds  today  but  me  and  you. 
Then  the  wind — a  music  sweeter 

Than  the  art  of  man  can  reach — 
It  will  play  a  soft  adagio 

To  the  lovers'  murmured  speech  ; 

346 


FOR  ONE  DAY.  347 

Just  one  day,  long  hoped  for,  dreamed  of, 

In  the  wintry  months  gone  by. 
Jeweled  promise  of  the  season 

Borealis  in  love's  sky. 
How  its  rosy  colors  cheered  us 

When  the  fire  of  hope  burned  low, 
And  pale  sorrow  at  the  ashes 

Mourned  the  joys  of  long  ago ; 
But  we'll  cast  each  care  behind  us 

When  that  balmy  morn  shall  rise, 
And  together,  all  unthinking, 

Walk  the  fields  of  Paradise, 
Every  leaf  and  branch  a  token 

In  their  dress  of  living  green, 
Of  that  other  life  unbroken 

With  no  cruel  death  between  ; 
Of  that  other  life,  where  anguish 

Shall  no  blazing  sword  unsheath, 
Where  no  canker  worm  of  sadness 

Eats  the  rooting  hope  beneath, 
All  the  passion  and  forlornness, 

All  the  sorrow  put  away, 
When,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  like  children, 

We  shall  spend  that  last  sweet  day. 


ROSEHILL 
I. 

Sleep'st    thou   well,    dearest,    where    the    summer 

blooms, 
Blend  with  the  soft   wind    on    the    day's    warm 

breast, 
Where  sings  the  wild  bird  from  the  grove's  deep 

glooms, 

And  nature  tunes  her  million  sounds  toward  rest? 
Where  sheds  the  sun  his  bright  impartial  rays, 

And  gleams  the  pond,  a  silver  basin,  set 
Close  to  where  droop  the  green  acacia  sprays, 
And  breathes  the  odor  of  the  mignonette? 

II. 

Sleep'st  thou  well  dearest?  all  the  air  is  rife 

With    gentle  sounds,    whose    tender    meanings 

spread 
A  gladd'ning  influence,  breathing  hope  and  life, 

E'en  o'er  thy  grave,  who  liest  cold  and  dead, 
The  birdling  woos  his  little  mate  once  more, 

The  south  wind  dallies  with  the  bloss'ming  trees, 
And  every  green  slope  of  this  lake-girt  shore 

Shakes  out  sweet  perfume  to  the  amorous  breeze. 
348 


ROSEHILL.  349 

III. 

Yes,  well  thou  sleepest!  all  the  sun's  warm  gold 

Lights  never  more  thy  dark  and  narrow  bed ; 
The  happy  secrets  Nature's  lips  have  told 

Unheeded  sweetness  speak  to  thee — my  dead  ; 
For  though  she  flaunt  her  glorious  summer  hours, 

And  deck  with  garlands  every  moment  'round, 
She  sheds  in  vain  the  crimson  of  her  flowers, 

And  cannot  call  thee  from  thy  rest  profound. 


FORGET  ME  NOT. 

The  walks  with  weeds  are  overgrown, 

All  thick  about  them  lie 
Crisp  autumn  leaves  of  somber  tone, 

To  match  the  lowering  sky  ; 
The  wind  that  turns  them,  murmurs  low 

The  message  it  has  brought 
From  northern  fields  of  ice  and  snow, 
.  With  heralding  unsought ; 
The  flower  beds,  their  beauty  fled 

Where  weeds  in  jostling  number, 
Cross  stems  above  the  blossoms  dead 

To  guard  their  earthy  slumber. 
No  careful  hand  that  rest  shall  break, 

No  kindly  eye  may  see 
The  verdure  that  the  spring  shall  wake 

On  withered  stem  and  tree  ; 
All  is  deserted  ;  on  the  wall 

The  green  stains  thickly  spread, 
And  ivy  strives  to  cover  all 

With  curtaining  leaves  instead  ; 
The  fountain  basin,  blotched  and  cracked, 

Filled  by  decaying  mosses 
Where  time  has  coursed  its  changeless  track 

And  age  each  mark  engrosses  ; 
35o 


FORGE T  ME  NOT.  3 5 1 

The  ruined  dial's  fallen  apart, 

The  sun  that's  true  forever, 
Shall  brightly  touch  its  disused  heart 

With  meaningless  endeavor  ; 
And  there,  beyond  them  all  I  see 

Solemn,  and  sad,  and  gray, 
The  old  house  seeming  but  to  be 

The  sentinel  of  decay  ; 
I  will  not  penetrate  its  gloom 

To  see  from  floor  to  ceiling 
Its  dusty  trace  of  fate  and  doom, 

Its  storied  unrevealing. 
Though  sad  its  garden,  sadder  far 

To  tread  again  these  floors, 
And  see,  as  some  undying  star, 

The  memory  that  endures. 
I'll  pace  once  more  the  lonely  walks 

And  watch  the  frowning  weather, 
And  listen  to  the  mystic  talks 

The  dead  leaves  hold  together. 
A  few  pale  blossoms  still  remain 

From  Summer's  wreath,  slow  falling, 
All  bending  to  the  stern  refrain 

The  cold  storm  king  is  calling. 
One  slim  white  rose  its  pale  cheek  lays 

Against  the  mouldering  wall, 
Like  a  sad  thought  of  other  days 

Beyond  Hope's  slow  recall. 
And  here  in  this  lone  corner,  blue 

As  dropped  from  morning  skies, 


352  FORGET  ME  NOT 

A  tiny  flower  is  peeping  through, 

Nature's  last  sweet  surprise  ; 
Ah  !  happy  ground  that  gave  it  birth, 

Most  glad,  sun-favored  spot  ! 
To  bear  the  sweetest  flower  on  earth, 

The  blue  forget-me-not  ! 
I  gaze  upon  the  tiny  thing, 

The  magic  key  that  opes 
That  heavy  door  whose  solemn  swing 

Has  hidden  many  hopes  ; 
And  down  the  long  deserted  hall, 

That  led  to  happier  years, 
I  stretch  the  cloth  of  memory's  pall, 

And  mark  the  way  with  tears, 
And  bless  the  grief  that  thus  can  melt 

The  ice,  that  hardening  made 
A  sorrow  that  no  softening  felt, 

No  tenderness  betrayed; 
For  He  who  made  the  flower  and  sun, 

The  pleasure  and  the  pain, 
Shall  come  to  claim  them  everyone 

In  His  good  time  again ; 
He  seeks  us  with  unresting  care 

And  each  forsaken  spot 
May  yet  beneath  His  fostering  care 

Bear  one  forget-me-not. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


FROM  SIDE  STREETS  AND  BOULEVARDS;  A  COLL 


